Clash of Worlds
by PheonRen
Summary: AU. What happens when magic gone awry unites a post-apocalypstic Earth and Thedas?
1. Fallen Angel

_Setting: The early part of Origins. The Archdemon has not been defeated, but Loghain's treachery has been exposed._

**Clash of Worlds**

**1. Fallen Angel**

Unnatural thunder rolled across the plain. Alistair Theirin felt a cold tendril of apprehension lace up his back, flickering and dancing along his spine. He slashed a final time at the bestial Hurlock he was fighting. Blood arced through the air, splattering against his faceplate and dripping in gory remnants from his armor.

He turned just as a great rolling wave of magic struck him. Blue like the lightning that should have preceded the ominous thundering roar, it boiled over and around him like a crashing tsunami.

For a terrifying instant, he was falling. Then the world was gone, no ground beneath his metal-clad feet, no sky above. The nothingness in which he found himself paralyzed him with abject terror. As if suspended, he hung in the midst of a great black nothing, until suddenly a brilliant vortex of light streamed into view, and sucked him in.

He screamed with inarticulate panic as he plunged with dizzying speed down a brilliant, glittering passage of pure magic. It flayed him, screaming across his nerves with vicious uncaring. He longed for the sweet oblivion of death as terror and pain tore away all coherent thought and left him stripped of all sense of self.

There was only pain and the gripping terror as he plummeted towards something; he knew not what. Through brilliant flashes of light and the roaring agony, he thought he saw Darkspawn, also falling, faces contorted with their own inarticulate agony.

Then it ended with a vicious abruptness that tore his breath away and left him aching in every part of his body. Parts of himself that he didn't even know existed were drenched in mind-blowing pain, awash with a sort of paralyzing, petrifying ache that settled into him more deeply than the worst of battles had ever done.

He groaned and lay still, unable to draw breath or to even move. Time passed, and he drifted in and out of consciousness. At length, he woke to find a woman kneeling over him. For a moment, he thought he'd gone into the Fade, never to awaken. If so, despite the pain, it wasn't so bad here.

Her brown hair was braided, falling forward over her shoulder. Her eyes were blue, a shade he'd rarely seen. Her face, although unremarkable, was nonetheless compelling. He stared at her for a moment, probably only an instant, before the shocking pain of what she was doing registered again.

"Ah!" he shouted, both because of the pain from whatever she was doing, and the agony that blazed through him as he reached for his sword.

The woman's eyes met his, a deeply worried frown entrenched upon her remarkable face. "Shhh," she warned him, making calming, shushing gestures with her hands. He scowled at her, and she pointed into the distance.

He turned, painfully, and stared. A horde of Darkspawn boiled and swirled there, and he realized it was from there that what he thought was thunder was coming. Strange flashes of light accompanied the thunderous, distant roars, and he shivered at the memory of another bright, roaring flash.

Turning back to her, he swallowed hard and attempted to nod. Instead, pain blazed, and he grimaced. A pained grunt left him, but he managed to hold most of it in. Groaning, he let her continue, until he felt the Darkspawn warning tingle through his blood. He reached for his sword and shield before he even registered that he was too injured to use them.

The woman whirled, pulled something metallic from her hip, and a concussive explosion rocked the air. He nearly lost control of himself at the blow of the sound, but watched in surprise as the back of the Genlock's head erupted into a geyser of blood, bone, and brains.

He fought not to wretch. Despite being so accustomed to killing, this was something new, unfamiliar, and somehow profoundly disturbing.

The woman squatted next to him again, then said something he didn't understand. The grim look on her face and her direct gaze warned him, though, and he gritted his teeth. With a sudden, swift lurch, she jerked on him.

Every nerve in his body came to life in an instant, shrieking and protesting with more pain than he'd ever felt before in his life. Darkness fell, swirling around her kind, sympathetic face as he fell once more into the abyss of unconsciousness.


	2. The Rescuer

**2. The Rescuer**

Sherry Walker wasn't given to flights of fancy. Everyone there considered her to be a hard, if fair, leader. There were more rumors about her than there were people in the compound—and more of them were true than she ever admitted.

To begin with, Sherry was indeed a couple of hundred years old. She did have a secret that gave her longevity. She'd tried a few times to share it, since it was sustainable and renewable. But once they learned the truth about it, they all, to a person, refused it. She quit offering eventually, because people knowing about it made life much harder for her.

In those two hundred plus years, she'd bent her mind to learning everything she could. But nothing had prepared her for what was happening now. She'd survived a brutal war. She'd survived famines and she'd survived the multitudes of religious hegemonies that had arisen over the years and that invariably attacked her compound.

But this was all new. These… creatures—she couldn't call them zombies, in spite of herself—had simply fallen from the sky in huge numbers. There'd been Earthquakes and floods. It had been a cataclysm of Biblical proportion. Not that anyone else knew what the Bible was anymore.

And now this. Another man amidst the carnage of ravaging beasts the other called 'Darkspawn'. They'd managed to save the other one, and two more, a man and a woman. The woman lay catatonic still, though. And she was elderly and frail, so Sherry was uncertain she would even survive at all.

The younger of the two men was creating a great stir amongst the people of the compound, as well. His strange build, pointy ears, and the tendency of people to insist that he was an elf of all things, seemed to create quite the sensation amongst the women. And an even greater deal of angst amongst the men.

This man had arrived a couple of days after the others, during the worst of the maelstrom. His flesh had been seared, and they had none of the potions left that the elf, Zevran, had given them for the healing of himself and the two others.

She dragged the litter to the compound and slipped into her house. It was ancient by the standards of the day. It had solar panels, hot running water, composting toilets, and many other amenities. Additionally, food grew right inside of it, a remarkable and excellent strategy for keeping everyone in the compound healthy during the frigid and barren winters. The greenhouse had given up the ghost a long time ago, succumbing to the pressures of too many people who didn't care for it as she had asked.

That was why she never allowed anyone into her home. She kept it locked and carried the key. No one ever dared attack her for it, because she'd learned mixed martial arts and fencing during the early years when she'd realized she could live indefinitely on the Philosopher's Stone.

She carefully laid her burden down in the living room, dragging him onto sofa cushions. He moaned painfully in his sleep. She sank down beside him and pondered what to do. She could force the Philosopher's stone onto him, if she chose to. He would live, and the burns would eventually heal entirely, leaving no scars.

But would he find the price to be worth it? She wasn't sure. Perhaps, she thought, she could tell him she used one of the potions. Then she sighed. She wouldn't lie, she decided; she simply wouldn't answer him about it. Ever.

Thus deciding, she got up and prepared a simple poultice. Infusing it with Echinacea, aloe, and a few other herbs to soothe the burns, she sprinkled the red powder of the Philosopher's Stone on it. Slowly, working as carefully as she could, she removed his armor, then his clothes. By the time she was done, tears were pouring down her face.

Every inch of his body was raw, the skin often coming away with the charred remnants of his armor and clothes in clotted chunks. He had no hair, his eyebrows were gone, and even his groin was burned clean of all hair.

He cried out in his sleep as she covered him, including the mangled, burned area between his legs, in the precious poultices. She knew that he was taxed beyond his endurance already, but she could not leave his back the way it was. And she would have to wrap his head.

Hours passed, and Sherry labored into the darkness of the night, her tears for his suffering marking her face for as long as her weary hands worked to lessen that misery for him as much as she could.

Despite her usual faith in the curative powers of the powdered Philosopher's Stone, she could barely bring herself to believe he would ever recover. Even if he did, would he survive the emotional trauma?

The image of his golden eyes, bloodshot and yet hauntingly beautiful, rose before her eyes repeatedly. What had this man looked like before the trauma of this event? And what had torn her world so horribly that it was being invaded by monsters and men who spoke a strange language and fell from the sky?


	3. Reality Sets In

**3. Reality Sets In**

Alistair woke slowly. The pain was less, but he was in a strange place, staring at a blank white expanse that he assumed was some sort of ceiling. He wondered if perhaps Loghain had finally caught him. A mage? Something worse?

He tried to turn his head and found himself constricted. A moment of panic set in, and he heard shushing sounds again. The woman's face appeared above him again, but now she looked strained and tired.

She repeated a soft sound to him, and he slowly began to realize that it was a negative. "No, no, no!" She didn't touch him, and for a moment he felt panic. He could barely feel his arms and legs. Any of his skin, really; aside from a numb, tingling sensation over his entire body, including his—

He tried to sit up, a primal, male fear rising in him.

"No!" she yelped, too late and he was speared by pain.

He laid back, gasping and gulping for air. She held a glass to his lips, and a small white dot. She dropped the dot into his mouth before he could react, and then poured water in. He spluttered, but swallowed. He was surprised to find the water was cool and refreshing, tasting just slightly of something sweet that he couldn't place.

She fluttered around him, talking in a soft, lyrical language. He understood nothing she was saying. Strange noises erupted from behind him, and he jumped, groaning as the pain flared—though less than before.

The sound stopped, and he heard her coming back. She held something else to his lips, and he drank. It was sweet, but burned in his throat. He drank it, though, because as it flowed into him, he realized how famished he was. It was sweet, slightly tart, and he soon felt full from it.

Sleep claimed him immediately and he drifted in the Fade for a long time before he finally awoke again. This time, he could turn his head slightly, though it was still painful and constricted.

She was almost immediately at his side, asking him a single word question. She motioned at her mouth, and he realized she must be asking something like, "Eat?" or "Hungry?" He nodded, just slightly.

The sound came again, and soon she was pouring more of the sweet, tangy liquid down his aching throat. When she was about to stand up, he reached out and grabbed her. He wanted to thank her for saving him, but white strips surrounded his arm.

Mesmerized, he stared at them, then reached out, painfully, with his other hand and began to pull at them.

"No!" the woman objected, panic in her voice. She very gently pulled his hand away. "No!" she insisted again.

Alistair had a sudden feeling that she was hiding something from him. He grabbed her hand and gave her a hard stare. He wanted to make a joke, but he couldn't speak her language any more than she could speak his. So he held her in a firm grasp as he pulled the white wrapping away.

Naked, burned flesh felt cold air and quailed in pain. He gasped and felt misery settle into him. He wished in that moment that he had listened. Such a simple word, "no". He could have listened, and the skin wouldn't be burning in pain and he wouldn't know the true state of how he was.

He longed for a healing potion, but realized they'd been in his pack, and he remembered it being cut free. He fought not to cry, until her eyes met his. Their soft blue depths shimmered with sympathy and sorrow. He squeezed his own shut, trying to shut out the gentle face and the pity he saw there. But the tears came anyway. He heard her back behind him in what must be a food preparation area, and knew she had missed the tear that wet the bandage on his face.

His face. His whole body. Even… he couldn't think about it. He couldn't believe it. He couldn't imagine it. What was to become of him? He would be a cripple. The crippled Warden, who would one day go mad and not even be able to fight Darkspawn.

All of the Wardens gone except him and Callbrith. Perhaps even Callbrith was gone, too. Now the only Warden left was a hideous, useless beast who couldn't even kill himself because the pain of moving was too great.


	4. Understanding Alistair

**4. Understanding Alistair**

Sherry pointed to her chest again. "Sherry."

Then she again pointed to his chest. "What's your name?" she asked.

He blinked at her for a few moments. Then he croaked, "Alis…tair."

"Alistair?" She pointed at him and asked.

He nodded, and she said, "Yes." She nodded, and said again, "Yes." She shook her head and frowned, "No." She smiled and nodded. "Yes!"

Then she pointed at him again. "Alistair?"

"Yes," he croaked.

She grinned at him. He was smart and learning fast. And he had a name at last.

She gave him another strawberry and egg smoothie, with the Philosopher's Stone powder mixed in. It was helping, though slowly. She knew because she had seen burn victims before. They tended to be in a lot more pain than this man was, in spite of the Morphine she'd given him from her hoard.

He said something, and she guessed what he said. She suspected he was thanking her, but she wasn't sure. She patted the pillow beside him and smiled. She knew the movement would translate itself to him, but without the pain even the slight touch would have caused had she touched him instead.

She went and cleaned the dishes, whistling as she worked. He was going to be okay, she was sure of it. She felt strange, though, because she couldn't stop thinking about those fascinating eyes, and she hadn't felt that way in… well, easily over a hundred years. She just didn't feel like romance was of value, and she'd come to a point where she'd just wanted to learn everything she possibly could. Who had time for that, and romance, too?

Yet, she couldn't keep herself from whistling as she went about cleaning up. She kept glancing over to where he slept, the beautiful eyes, so warm and direct, closed to her for the time being.

The routine continued for several days, though his voice began to improve, and he learned more words. Hungry, yes, no, and a few other basics. He had even learned how to tell her that he had to relieve himself, though he needed no words to express his frustration and humiliation at her having to help him… or the pain associated with doing it.

She felt very strange helping him in such a manner. As if in some way she was betraying him by helping him, though he was literally not able to do it himself. She knew that he feared deeply the possibility that his 'plumbing' wouldn't work again, but it was of little concern to her. The Philosopher's Stone was helping him, and she knew for a fact that although it would be slow, it was most likely going to be thorough.

Yet, she chafed at not being able to explain to him, and even as she began to address the concerns of the compound again, she couldn't focus on the job.

The elf was running rampant outside in the compound, and learning the language at an incredible rate. She nearly considered asking him to come explain to the man inside, but some instinct quelled her. Or, perhaps, she merely wanted him to herself for a while longer.

So she spent as much time as she could in her house caring for him, giving only the explanation that the burn victim needed a great deal of care. He got a great deal more than he needed, but this little factoid was not inserted into her discussions with people.

It was several weeks later and she was removing the bandages when she saw that his skin had already whitened in several areas. Her heart sank. It was forming scars, instead of returning to healthy, pink, natural skin.

She couldn't tell him, even if she'd been able to communicate it to him with his limited English. Worse, she noticed, the hair on his head was starting to grow, and apparently to itch. But it was growing back in patches, bits springing up here and there, with burned skin between.

She did notice that it was a sandy sort of strawberry blond. In fact, it was nearly the same color as his eyes. She ruthlessly trimmed it down close to his head so that it wouldn't itch under the bandages, though. Handsome or not, the hair couldn't be allowed to hurt him.

As they worked on him learning her language, she began to realize that she was picking up some of his, as well. This pleased her, as she felt that he might be feeling lonely. Eventually, she asked him, though it took a good twenty minutes to ask him if he wished to speak with the others from his own place.

He refused, and her heart ached. He didn't want them to see him that way. Better lonely and ashamed, than exposed and ashamed. She didn't blame him. Though for her, he was better company than all of those out in the compound put together.


	5. Secrets and Stagnation

**5. Secrets and Stagnation**

Five months passed, with the battles against the encroaching Darkspawn growing ever more frequent. They continued to drop from the sky, looking, according to both Zevran and Loghain, even more wretched than they had in their own world.

Since she had met them, Sherry had mistrusted them both. As they learned the language better, and she learned theirs from Alistair, she distrusted them more and more. No one else seemed to question their stories about being from some world named Thedas and having fallen through some wormhole sort of thing. But Sherry wasn't sure. Alistair wouldn't talk about it, which had begun to wedge a rift between the fragile friendship that had begun to form.

Their communication was still laborious, and there were frequent misunderstandings, but Alistair continued to improve physically. He no longer required daily bandaging, and she'd long since ceased to help him bathe or eliminate.

His hair still grew in patches, and he'd seen the mirror in the bathroom. His face was lined with scar tissue. He'd stared at himself for a long time, but said nothing. She had left him alone, and for the next several days, he hadn't spoken except to answer questions, generally tersely and with barely concealed impatience.

The eyes Sherry so adored rarely met hers anymore, and she found herself growing morose and withdrawn as well. She continued to give him doses of the Philosopher's Stone in his food, though, hiding it from him to the best of her ability. He never mentioned it.

She had realized early on, however, that he had night terrors. It had taken some getting used to, since she was used to not only being alone in "the big house", but also because she felt constrained against doing anything to soothe him. On the one hand, he seemed quite laid back, yet he also seemed touchy and took offense at simple jokes not meant to be unkind.

One night, his terrors were exceptionally strong, and she found herself wrapped in a shall and walking around the stone walls of the compound that most called "Sherry's Walk". She never knew why, or who came up with it. The name had stuck, much to her dismay, and was one of the things that fueled the rumors about her.

She saw a figure moving stealthily ahead of her, and immediately withdrew into the shadows. Standing stalk still as she'd been taught, she alternately relaxed and flexed her muscles so that they would respond when she called on them.

"Ma Sherreee?" The elf's voice was low and quiet, her name drawn out by his odd accent.

"Zevran? What are you doing?"

"I take a watch, earn place," he told her.

She sighed and, before she even thought, blurted, "I wish Alistair would take a watch, I think it would be good for him."

She immediately knew that she had made some sort of profound, insidious error. The elf's body went taut. Not aggressively so, but enough that her well trained eye noticed it.

"Who is Alistair? Is he the pained one?"

"Wounded," she corrected automatically.

"I thought he had not maked it."

"Alistair is a friend of mine, I doubt you know him."

"Sherreeee, you make fakes?"

"What?"

"Hmmm, lie? You make lie?"

She spread her hands. "Why would I lie? Naturally, I have no reason to assume you mean such a man any harm, do I?"

"No, no," he told her. "No harm. He knows Loghain with you, yes?"

"Why would he care?"

The elf's face grew slightly sly, and Sherry controlled the shiver that wanted to roll down her spine only through sheer will.

"No reason for sure," Zevran said. "I must to make watching now."

Sherry's skin grew cold as he sauntered off. Something, she was certain, was amiss here.


	6. The Assassin

**6. The Assassin**

She slept that night on the sofa. Being so close to Alistair was difficult for her, because his thrashing and moaning was even more difficult to ignore when so close to him. He tossed and turned, muttering and sometimes grinding his teeth so loudly that she wanted to tell him he was going to lose them before he was 40 if he kept it up. Though, she wasn't sure how old he was, so perhaps it would be a bit later than that.

Another week passed, and she considered that perhaps she had misunderstood Zevran's interest in Alistair. She was jousting windmills, most likely. Creating monsters where none existed. But because she trusted her instincts, she stayed on the sofa, anyway.

Besides, perhaps some morning, Alistair would meet her eyes again, and she would be lost in their warm golden depths, if only for a moment.

"Why are you here?" Alistair's voice was still gritty, but improving.

She looked up and found him watching her, wary and perhaps even distrustful. "You have nightmares."

"Horses?" he asked, his mottled, scarred brow wrinkling even more.

"No, night terrors. Bad dreams."

"Oh, yes. The Darkspawn dreams. Wardens have them until we—" he said something in his own language that made no sense to her. Seeing her confusion, he put his hands up to his neck and pretended to choke himself.

"Until you die?"

He shrugged uncertainly. Then he said, "Not need sleep here, is okay."

Behind his words, though, she heard what she'd been expecting for nearly two weeks now. She slipped quietly from the sofa, and drew her ancient Katana, still honed to a sharp edge after two centuries. Pressing her finger to her lips, she silenced him and padded on silent feet towards the wall between the living room and the corridor from the front door. She pantomimed him sleeping, and he obediently pretended to sleep.

The elf was relying on the elements of stealth and surprise. He had neither in this particular case, because she'd heard him picking the lock. Impressive, since although it was ancient, it was a very sophisticated lock. It had taken him significant time, but he'd done it.

When the would-be assassin slipped past her into the room, she slashed the katana up to swiftly disarm the dagger heading for Alistair's heart.

But he had another in his other hand and he rounded on her fully, dagger flipping nonchalantly into his other hand. "Sherreeee, Sherreee," he said to her, "you made lie."

"Obviously, I had good reason to," she said, and feinted with the katana.

He fell for it, slashing back at her, his dagger bouncing easily off of the high-carbon steel of her katana. She twisted and slashed the sword down, slicing as easily through his leather armor and into his thigh as if she'd been cutting through butter with a burning knife.

He jumped backwards, and she realized he wasn't alone. He'd obviously recruited several men from the compound into his nefarious night run. She ducked a poorly-swung sword and winced as another grazed her shoulder, doing more bruising than anything.

The vicious katana, made for killing, demanded instant retribution, and glided through the air without so much as a swish. It eagerly drove right through the man's hardened leather and didn't even slow down as it split ribs and bit through his backbone.

She swept through him and out so quickly that she easily parried the heavy blow of the man beside him in the now-crowded hallway. The sounds of fighting echoed behind her, and she hoped that Alistair could hold his own. She now had two opponents attacking her, and another circling in her kitchen, trying to reach her as well.

She dodged a blow aimed at her head, slamming the katana hard against the dagger the other man tried to lead with as she bent forward to avoid the higher strike. The dagger literally shattered, unable to stand against the high quality of her ancient katana, made in the time when blacksmithing was an art, not merely a trade.

She didn't waste the opportunity, and sliced the man from pelvis to chin in a single, swift movement.

The other two looked at each other, and turned to run. She caught the first one and sliced his head clean off, catching the other just before he reached the door. She stabbed him through the heart and rushed back into the living room.

The elf had found another dagger—probably carried multiples at all times, as she did—and was pressing the wounded Alistair hard.

Reversing the katana, she nailed him, with excessive force, on the side of the skull. He dropped like a spilled bucket of paint, flowing across the floor to lie like a lump in a pool of the other man's blood.

"What that was about?" Alistair gasped, holding his side and nursing his aching, scarred hand.

"What was that about—" she corrected him automatically. "I believe our elf friend is an assassin. What I want to know is, why, and for whom?"

"Why assassin want to kill you?"

"Not me, you." She finally got to look into those gorgeous eyes. Somehow, standing in a pool of blood and entrails spoiled the moment a bit.


	7. Revelation

**7. Revelation**

When Zevran came to, Alistair watched as Sherry casually dangled the katana in front of his face, still coated in blood and even with a bit of bone stuck to it. His stomach turned, though he recognized the inherent threat in what she was doing.

But he soon forgot about all of that as more and more came to light. First, he learned that the elf was there on command from Loghain. Although he now suspected he might never be paid at all, he still did it, since he assumed he would be murdered himself if he didn't.

Next, and worst of all, the traitor Loghain was in the compound, and Alistair knew he was in no shape to face him.

Then, just when he felt like things couldn't get any worse, Sherry accepted the assassin's promise to be 'her man' for as long as she desired it. Confused and uncertain, wondering why she was harboring Loghain, he fought with her late into the morning after Zevran left.

Finally, she ignored him and simply began cleaning her floors. Realizing belatedly that it was a his fault her floors were filthy, he helped her. He wondered why she didn't use the thing she killed the Genlock with, and she informed him that the sound would have attracted too much attention in the camp.

She didn't need to tell him that she had tried to keep his the secret. She had a disfigured man in her house. What would people think of her if they knew? Feeling overwhelmed and guilty, he retreated back into his shell.

When the cleaning was done, she attempted to engage him in conversation. He answered shortly, hurt that she was hiding him from the world, missing his Warden brothers, and feeling generally miserable.

She left, and he spent several hours alone, bored and brooding.

That ended abruptly when she dragged someone else into the room just as the shadows were growing long. It was Callbrith. Alistair couldn't believe the dwarf had survived. He was in bad shape, though. Alistair watched as she rummaged in his packs, until she found some healing potions.

She gave them to Callbrith, and his breathing eased. He slipped into a normal Gray Warden sleep immediately, and Sherry looked relieved. She held one of the potions out towards Alistair.

"Will this heal your scars?"

Alistair's hand gripped harder around the hard wood of the end of the sofa. "No," he told her, his heart aching. "It's too late for that. If I hadn't lost my pack—"

"Can't dwell on that now," she told him. "What's done is done."

He didn't know the word "dwell" but he had a good idea of what it meant. And she was right, but he couldn't help but think on it over the next several hours. Briefly, and with difficulty, he explained to her that Callbrith was someone he knew and had been traveling with. He was happy to see his friend.

When Callbrith woke up, he and Alistair talked for a long time. A lot of things became clearer, but others became more clouded. As far as they could tell in Ferelden, the world had been sundered by some sort of powerful magic. They were in another dimension, half in this one, half in their own. Sometimes, people fell through.

After some discussion, Callbrith explained that he thought he might know a way to fix it, but he wasn't sure if it would work from this side. In short, he explained, they would have to fix it the way they had always planned to do anyway… kill the Archdemon.

"But first," Alistair told him, "I'm going to kill Loghain."

"You can't," Sherry interrupted them. Alistair had no time to be surprised she knew his language well enough to understand what he'd said already, before she continued, "He ran off in the middle of the night. Probably when his assassin didn't check in with him. Maybe before."

Alistair felt rage and regret well up in him.

"I also know how to make Grey Wardens now," Callbrith told him. "But we need a mage. I have enough Lyrium in my packs for twenty or so. But I don't know how it will effect these people. And the bad news is, Loghain has the Archdemon blood we need for the ritual."

Alistair's emotions warred between depression and elation. Perhaps they could save both worlds. But they had to fight an Archdemon, hunt Loghain down, and all on a foreign world with Alistair himself barely able to wield a sword or shield thanks to extensive scarring.

No problem…


	8. Preparation

**8. Preparation**

"People from your world continue to land here. Many are dead, but some have survived." Sherry had returned from the compound to inform them both.

She turned to Callbrith then. "No other little people have landed, and the people here have never seen one. I'm uncertain how they will react."

Since Callbrith hadn't learned any English at all, Alistair translated.

"Little people?" Callbrith bellowed in outrage. He hefted his axe, bringing a response from Sherry so fast that neither of the pair could follow the action that brought her katana to her grip.

"Ye ask her if I'm little now!"

"She says it's considered to be the polite way to refer to people like you here," Alistair dutifully repeated. "She didn't mean any offense by it."

As if to prove it, she sheathed the katana and spread her hands as if in surrender. Neither Alistair nor Callbrith were altogether fooled by the act. They both knew already that the katana could be back in her hands before Callbrith could even complete a swing in her direction. But the movement pacified Callbrith, and he relaxed. Somewhat…

"I ain't no little person, I'm a dwarf, woman!" he roared at her, before grunting and putting his axe away.

Alistair tried to relay the answer, though she had to supply the English word for 'dwarf'. But the point was made and she gracefully acquiesced to the demand as she once again explained that she had no idea how the people of the compound would react to him.

Then she turned to Alistair. "I'll be back in a couple of hours. During that time, I think you should decide whether or not you're going out into the compound with your friend. If you're not ready, I understand. But I don't know how much more you'll heal, even with the—" She stopped abruptly and wet her lips.

Two different aspects within Alistair responded to the unconscious gesture. It stirred lust, at the same time that it called up an uncertain, uncomfortable sense of suspicion. He didn't know why it would do so, but it left him with a perverse sense that she was lying by omission. But if she'd wanted to poison him, it would be done already. As efficient as she was at killing, really, why even bother with poison?

"Anyway, you think about it, okay?" She patted him lightly on the shoulder and turned to go into the compound. As she was leaving, she turned to look at him. "Has anyone told you that you have stunning eyes?"

"No. Why? Is that your way of saying that I have stunning eyes?"

"And if it is?"

"Oh, nothing. I just get to sit around grinning and making a fool of myself for a while."

She gave him one of her rare, impish smiles, and vanished out the door. True to his word, he grinned unconsciously through his conversation with Callbrith about "why you got all them scars."

Callbrith answered, "Women think scars are sexy." He thumbed towards the door. "She ain't no exception, neither."

"Nah, she was just being nice," Alistair told him.

"Like a Bronto's ass," Callbrith said crudely, his black beard bouncing as he laughed at Alistair. "Where's the head?"

Alistair pointed him in the direction of the bathroom and stared at the foliage. Who would have imagined plants growing inside a house?

When Sherry returned some time later, Alistair had some questions to ask, "Why not just let Callbrith stay here?"

"I've lived alone longer than… a long time. I don't want my house overrun with people. He can stay in the compound, but not in here." There was a hard set to her face that he'd never seen before as she said it.

"Okay," Alistair answered. "I should probably start staying out there, also."

She looked strained for a moment, then answered, "You're still under treatment for your burns. We have to continue to keep the scar tissue supple. If you insist on staying with your friend, I insist that we continue the therapy for your scars. And I want you to keep taking the herbal drinks in the morning."

There were words that Alistair didn't understand, but he got the gist of the idea. He felt pleased that at least she wasn't throwing him away entirely, but also ashamed because he had selfishly taken up her time and living quarters with his brooding and his fear of facing the rest of the world with his distorted features.

She paused a moment, then looked as if she wished to speak. She bit her lip, scratched her head, and then finally said softly, "Would you like me to shave your head? There are places the hair isn't growing. It might be less obvious…"

His heart sank, but at the same time, he felt a humble gratitude. She was right that it would look better shaved, yet it was painful to accept the fact. He nodded, fighting the emotional hurt that welled in him.

They spent the next few minutes in relative silence—given there was a dwarf on hand who felt no compunction whatsoever in telling Alistair, in the most blunt and ungraceful way possible, that it's a good thing he was shaving his head. Callbrith didn't want to be seen with a bronto in rutting season, spines sticking up all over the place. Alistair sent him a rude gesture, and the dwarf just chortled.


	9. Comprehension

**9. Comprehension**

Then it was done, and Alistair had no more excuses. To his surprise, Sherry brought him some clothes. They were lighter than the leather he was used to, and fit him perfectly. When he exclaimed that they matched him exactly, Sherry corrected him to 'fit' rather than match, but he caught her blush and look away.

He realized that, for all intents and purposes, since she had been caring for him so long, she possibly knew his body better than he did. He looked away, embarrassed by the thought. His memories of those first days were vague and clouded by pain, but a few things stood out, not the least of which was that he hadn't always been able to help himself to the bathroom.

The moment of realizing how intimately she knew his body crystallized the awareness of her as a woman for him in a way that shifted something profound for him. No longer did she seem simply his oddly compelling caretaker whose beauty in his eyes grew each day, but she became more surely a woman to him in that moment.

He followed her out of the house and into the compound, limping slightly. The place seemed deserted except for the few people on the walls, pacing back and forth. No doubt watching for Darkspawn.

"They tunnel, you know," he said absently to Sherry.

"They try," she told him. "But they leave burrows behind, and they're easy to smoke out. The real problem is knowing when they're coming. But we set up a perimeter alarm that goes off from the vibrations of their burrowing."

"A what?"

"Hmm, something that warns us by jingling when they burrow," she told him, trying to explain the concept to him. "They shake the ground when they tunnel."

"I can alarm, too," he told her.

It was her turn to give him a quizzical look. "What?"

"I know them. When they are near, I feel them."

"Sure, okay." Her voice held little conviction, and frustration rose in him.

He stopped her. "I'm a Gray Warden. I am tied to the Darkspawn, sort of. I know when they are close to me. I feel it."

"I don't know what a Gray Warden is, Alistair. But I find your claim to be far fetched."

"You don't need to know what a Gray Warden is. Can you just believe me on this? Did you expect people and Darkspawn to fall out of your skies? Maybe there are other things you don't expect, too?"

Her remarkable blue eyes met his. "I do trust you, Alistair." There was a warmth in her voice that tingled through his body. "I will accept what you say until proven otherwise."

He followed her into the building she led him into, trying not to watch the way her hips moved as she walked. He saw Callbrith snicker at him when he looked again, in spite of himself.

In low mutter, Callbrith told him, "I see getting burnt didn't curb your bucking pony!"

"What are you talking about?" Alistair asked him indignantly, afraid he already knew.

Callbrith just sniggered again and tugged his beard, which did little to hide his smirk.


	10. Excursion

_My great thanks to Pirate Ninjas of the Abyss! I really enjoy and appreciate every Review. It's very encouraging as a writer to know that it's being read and appreciated. It's a lot of work to write a story, so knowing someone's reading it is fabulous! Thank you much!_

**10. Excursion**

"This is the Cafeteria. We call it Bucky's Place because 'The Cafeteria' is really boring." She opened the door and led them into the dark interior of the Cafeteria.

Alistair looked around, smelling food and noticing a number of tables in rows. It must be a place for eating in a group. He noticed that only one of the tables had people at it, a group of men chatting together with the easy camaraderie of long acquaintance. A pang ran through him as he once more was reminded of all that Loghain had cost him.

"You can get whatever you want to eat here," Sherry told them. "I'm going to check on the Watch, and I'll be right back. Sit wherever you like."

"Thank you," Alistair said as he moved to stand behind the two men already walking down the line and being served by people standing behind a metal shield and counter. He relayed the information to Callbrith as Sherry quickly explained how the system worked.

A few minutes passed as he chose food, then the line halted as the man in front of him waited for his meat to be cooked on some sort of griddle.

"I'm Jesse," the man told him. "Haven't seen you guys around here. But you came in with Sherry, so you must be alright. Come have a seat with us," he said as he took the plate held up over the metal shelf.

Uncomfortable, Alistair walked over to the table with Callbrith. They sat down beside the men at the table, with Jesse welcoming them. There were introductions, and Alistair was surprised to find that no one seemed to take any particular note either of his scars, nor of Callbrith's stature.

They ate in silence for a few moments, until Jesse asked, "So where are you from?"

"Ferelden," Alistair answered immediately.

"That Thedas?"

"Yes."

"Ain't seen anyone from Thedas with scars before," one of the other guys said. The man next to him elbowed him hard and he fell silent. "Sorry," he muttered, and said no more.

"I've been staying with Sherry while I recovered. I was badly burnt falling here."

"Should have known from the accent, though your English is the best I've heard so far," one of the others said. Alistair thought his name was Adam.

"Wait," Jesse said. "You've been staying in The Big House? With Sherry?"

Silence fell over the table, and the look Alistair had expected at the beginning was passed around the table as everyone stared at him.

"Yes. I was too injured to be moved."

"You look fine now," came the remark, though Alistair didn't see who said it. A couple of people snickered and Alistair felt pain flicker through him at their mockery.

"He must be 'fine' if he's staying at The Big House," someone else said, and everyone at the table laughed except Jesse.

"A hundred and fifty years, and she picks you?" Jesse said, his voice filled with surprise. He sat back and stared at Alistair. The table grew quiet. "I don't see what the big deal is. Why you?"

"She ain't a hundred and fifty years old," someone interjected. "That's just rumor and fantasy."

He fell silent as Jesse looked at him with a knowing, cool look.

Alistair felt stupid. "Picked me for what?"

Snickers flickered around the table. He wished he understood the nuances of English better. It was clear to him that he was missing something vital. What it was, though, was beyond him.

"Hey, mind if I join you?" Sherry's voice interrupted the tension at the table, breaking it like tinkling glass.

Jesse reached over and grabbed one of the lightweight chairs and placed it at the table. "We'd be delighted, Ma'am."

They ate quietly, the men chattering some amongst themselves about inconsequential things. Callbrith and Alistair returned three more times each to the line to get more food.

The third time, Sherry lifted a brow at Alistair's piled plate.

"Gray Wardens eat a lot." It was the only explanation he offered.

"If you'd told me you were still hungry, I would have prepared more food for you," she answered, her eyes twinkling.

He grinned back until he noticed everyone at the table silent and staring at him again. He ducked and went back to eating. Sherry gathered up her plate and utensils.

"I'm going to check the pastures today. When they're done, Jesse, can you have someone send them to the stables, please?" Then she stopped and turned to Alistair. "Can you ride?"

"Ride?"

"Horses. Can you ride horses?"

"No, I've never had opportunity. They're not all that normal on Thedas."

"'Common'. Not that common."

"Right."

"Well," she told him, "no time like now to learn."

She turned to walk away, but Jesse stopped her. "Why him?"

She looked at him for a long moment. Alistair squirmed uncomfortably, pushing too much food in his mouth in his nervousness. He was uncertain exactly what the undercurrents were that he was witnessing.

"The heart chooses, not the mind."

"That's a cop out," Jesse told her.

"So was the question you asked. What you really want to know is, 'Why not me'. But the answer is the same to both." She turned to walk away from the table and Jesse's hand fell away from her arm. She stopped and looked back. "That, and you're a slut, Jesse."

The table erupted in barely suppressed laughter, and Alistair felt a bit better. This time it was clear that they were laughing at Jesse instead of him.


	11. Darkspawn Sighting

**11. Darkspawn Sighting**

For six more months, Alistair learned the language and how to ride a horse. He worked out on a daily basis, the scars improving as the months went by. He had scarring left on his torso and his back, but most on his arms was gone. He refused to look in the mirror to find out how his face looked, because he knew it still had scarring on it. He could feel it when he talked, when he touched his face, and in the rare times he got to spend time with Sherry—the times he actually smiled.

He spent less and less time with Callbrith, who refused to ride. He hated being out from the mountains to begin with, but if he had to be, he told Sherry and Alistair, he was keeping his feet firmly on the ground. There'd be no flying out into the sky for him.

So Alistair began to help with the daily routines of life, but the skirmishes that took place outside the walls against the Darkspawn rarely came to his notice until afterward. He chafed, especially as men came in wounded and some of them turned, trying to devour former friends and brothers-in-arms.

One day, he was sitting in Sherry's home, working with the particularly stubborn scars on his back when someone banged loudly on the door. Leaping up, Sherry rushed to it and spoke for only a moment before returning. The katana, ever strapped to her, was pulled out and she gave it a swift inspection. Alistair didn't understand why—she inspected, oiled, and honed it if needed on a daily basis.

"What's going on?"

"Big bunch this time. I'm going to have to go with them."

Alistair grabbed his sword and started throwing on the armor he'd recently begun wearing again on a constant basis. To his surprise, Sherry began to help him put it on, buckling and tightening straps.

"You're not even going to protest?" he asked her, catching her blue eyes with his own.

"Alistair, I've been waiting for you to be ready for months now. Why would I protest. This is your job, from what you've told me about these Gray Wardens of yours." She pulled another strap tight and then looked back up at him. "Well, what are you waiting for? Let's go."

"You're in my way," he told her.

A grin spread over her face. "You've been letting me get in the way for too long now, Alistair. You'd have been out there sooner if I'd let you go."

"Yes, I would have." He couldn't argue with it.

She stepped out of the way, then said, "You'd have died."

He looked at her in surprise. What did she mean by that comment, he wondered.

"You were burned over every inch of your body. You would have died, because the scar tissue restricted your movement." Her face was serious again, and a little sad. "I'm sorry it took so long, but I did the right thing."

It was, he realized, almost a plea. He couldn't answer her, though. He wasn't sure. "We'll see, won't we?"

She nodded and looked away. Something, he felt, wasn't right. It was as if she was asking more than what it seemed on the surface. Forgiveness or permission for something more than keeping him away from Darkspawn.

They went out into the compound and Sherry mounted. "You'll be going with the infantry," she told him. "The horses won't be going out today. I'll see you in an hour or two. I'm scouting."

He stopped the horse. "You should take me with you. I can sense them, remember?"

"I could get attacked. It's not going to be an easy ride—"

"All the more reason you shouldn't be alone."

A strange look crossed her face. "I always do this alone, Alistair."

The voice came from behind him. "That's not a reasonable argument."

Alistair turned to see Zevran sauntering up to them. He was a little surprised to have such an unexpected ally, but he wasn't about to quibble right then.

"Okay. You've got two minutes to saddle up."

"Ye ain't goin' without me." Callbrith said from Sherry's other side.

"We'll be setting a punishing pace with these horses, Cally," Sherry told the dwarf.

Her nickname for him sounded like 'call-ee', and the first time she'd said it, Alistair had expected an objection. But she, and she alone, was allowed to refer to him that way. 'Cally' had beaten in a few heads for the mistake of thinking the privilege extended to them.

"Ain't going to fall behind," Callbrith told her. "Ain't gonna climb on no beast, neither. You mark my words, I'll keep up."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I won't stop for you. This is too important."

Callbrith huffed. "The day anyone needs to stop for me to rest, is the day I'm jumpin' offa that wall." He tugged on his beard, obviously offended.

"Very well," Sherry told him.

They set out through the walls, and true to her word, Sherry set a punishing pace, Callbrith running beside them for over three miles as they headed for the direction of the horde reports.

But eventually, he began to slow down. The pace Sherry was setting was grueling for the horses, the mountains being hard going and the air thinner up there.

"Okay, okay," Callbrith finally said, slowing and then stopping.

Sherry reined up and turned back.

"You go on," Callbrith said, bending over and panting heavily. "Tell me that you told me so, already. Go on without me."

"Callbrith, I've got a bit of a problem here, that I think you might be able to help me with," Sherry told him, ignoring entirely his comments and his gruff attitude.

"Yeah, an' what's that?" he snapped at her.

"Calily, that's my horse here, has a bit of a temper on her. She'd be better off if I could wear her out a bit. Carrying double would be the thing to help her settle down some, but the other guys weigh so much that they'd slow us down instead of just settling her in. Would you humor me? I don't need my sword arm worn out by fighting my horse the whole way."

Callbrith stared at her for a moment, his face set in a mask of pride. It seemed he was about to comment, his face working in anger for a bit. Then he said, "I don't mind helpin' ye. Ain't no way to be gentleman like and get out of it, is there."

Soon, he was mounted behind her, clinging to her waist. They set off again, the horses clambering along the mountainside like goats, weaving between trees and bumping roughly down the embankment of a dry stream bed.

After nearly an hour, during which she alternated between riding hard and walking the horses, Alistair felt a familiar tightening tingle in his gut.

"Darkspawn!" he and Callbrith warned at the same time.

Sherry pulled up, lifting a fist to warn them to silence. Climbing down from her horse as easily as if Callbrith wasn't even there, she gestured to them to stay, waving only Zevran down. She pointed at her eyes, then at Zevran, and then towards the North. Then she pointed at herself and indicated she would look to the South.

Alistair felt a sinking feeling as she slipped away into the woods. He felt his heart would burst out of his chest as the tension mounted.


	12. Good News and Bad News

**12. Good News and Bad News**

It felt like forever before Zevran returned. He shook his head and slipped away in the direction Sherry had gone, not so much as speaking a word. When the pair returned after another eternity had passed, they both looked intensely grim.

"It's bad news," Sherry said quietly. "Much worse than the reports."

They turned and rode hard back the way they had come. This time, though, Sherry didn't slow for rest. Soon, the horse's mouths were frothy, foam flecking back to coat their chests and mottle the low scrub they passed.

She stopped only to silently help Callbrith to the ground, ever mindful of his Dwarfish pride. Riding into camp, she stopped the marching men and turned them back, walking beside them with the spent horses. Alistair and Zevran led theirs also as they listened to her speaking with Jesse.

"It's a huge mass of them. They've always come at us before in small bands and with little focus. That's not the case now. In fact, they seem almost organized, for such brutish monsters. Something or someone is behind this. I don't know who or why, but it's a very bad sign. We're low on ammo and trading for more is too hard right now since travel is nigh on impossible."

Jesse sighed. "That's bad news indeed. And we've got more bad news, too."

"Can't be worse than what we saw," Sherry told him with a shudder.

He shook his head. "Maybe not, but it's still bad. Very bad. The man you had us keeping an eye on? Well, he's amassing an army. Word has it that we're his target. Or, more specifically, you and your boyfriend there, and the short man."

"I'm a dwarf, you hillbilly," Callbrith grunted at him.

Sherry started laughing. "Where did you pick up that word?"

Callbrith shrugged. "Here 'n there."

"Somehow, I never imagined I'd live to see the day that a dwarf said 'hillbilly'." She laughed so hard that after a while they were all laughing, even Callbrith grinning from ear to ear under his braided beard.

When they'd regained themselves somewhat, Sherry told Jesse, "Give me some good news now, my friend. I can't take any more bad news. Oh, and is he still holed up in Portsmouth?"

"Yeah, he's holed up there, but people are coming to him. He claims he's going to 'restore' the land or some such thing. Anyway, there is some good news. Or might be some. The old woman is waking up, though she's still weak. All of the ones that have been in comas are waking."

"What are you talking about?" Alistair asked. "Who wasn't awake?"

"Some of the people that come from your land are in a sort of sleeping state," Sherry told him. "They respond physically to some things, but mostly don't react outside of that."

"Have you seen any mages?" Zevran asked.

Sherry shrugged at the unfamiliar word. "I don't understand your question."

"People who do magic," Zevran clarified.

Sherry raised an eyebrow at him, and Jesse laughed.

"No such thing as magic, buddy," Jesse informed the elf.

"No such thing as elves or Darkspawn or people falling out of the sky, either," Sherry told him, her voice sharp.

"I find it difficult to believe," Sherry said. "But if these are Mages—people who do magic—as you claim, then why would they suddenly be waking? And why were they not awake before?"

"No Lyrium here, besides a potion here and there," Callbrith told her. "Won't find no dwarf sleepin' like that, 'cause we don't go to the Fade."

"The 'Fade'?" Sherry asked.

"It's the dream world," Alistair clarified. "Except that they can really go there. Not like here. I've noticed the Fade getting stronger here, too. The Darkspawn dreams had gotten a lot less clear. Now they're back to full strength."

"The night terrors you experienced when you first got here were pretty bad."

Multiple faces turned to look at her in surprise, but no one asked how she knew he'd had night terrors. Only a few knew he'd spent those first days in the Big House, and he hadn't bandied the fact about.

Sherry continued, either ignoring, or unaware of the undercurrents amongst the marching militia. "I've been having dreams lately of a dragon-woman. Freaky, really, but they seem so real. She's a strange one."

"A dragon-woman?" Alistair asked.

Sherry described a dragon, and Alistair was surprised to find they sounded almost exactly like the Old Gods or the Archdemons. Had something like this happened before, he wondered? But she went on to describe the woman in her dream, and he shrugged. There was no one like that in Ferelden that he knew of. Sherry expressed deep discomfort with the dreams, but then changed the conversation back to mages.

"We need to talk with them and find out why these mages are waking up all at the same time, and all of a sudden," she finished.

"You're taking this seriously?" Jesse asked her. When she nodded, he sighed. "Fine."


	13. Of Mages and Magic

_Another big 'Thank you!' to my reviewers! Your reviews mean a lot to me. Very encouraging to know I'm not just putting the story out into the aether, lol._

_Anyway, please note that chapter 12 has had some content added, so revisiting it is advised before reading this chapter.  
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**13. Of Mages and Magic**

When they returned, they found Sherry's Walk milling and bustling with activity. As they approached, a woman ran from the walls towards them. She rushed up to Sherry and said, "Hurry! It's pandemonium in here!"

Alistair didn't really know what 'pandemonium' was, but that didn't stop him from mounting and following as Sherry leapt astride and galloped towards the gates of the outer wall. They rushed through, people dodging out of the way of the rushing horses.

"Sautierre!" Sherry shouted. When one of the rushing men stopped to look at her, she said, "What's happening?"

"Insanity, Ma'am! Marianne and Paulson are here, and Marianne's gone crazy!"

Alistair was surprised to hear a decided dryness in Sherry's voice as she asked, "And when wasn't Marianne crazy, Sautierre?"

"Not like this, Ma'am. She's blowing things up! Paulson thinks you can help her, but the sleepers are in there trying to deal with her!"

"What do you mean she's blowing things up?"

Sherry asked the question at the same time that Alistair said, "The sleepers?"

"She's just waving her hands and things are blowing up!" There was a sound like a detonation, and he turned, before saying hurriedly over his shoulder, "There she goes again!"

"That's what we've been calling your mages," Sherry answered Alistair's question.

They dismounted and followed the trotting Sautierre at a run. When they got inside the massive common room where the pandemonium was taking place, Alistair saw a group of mages, hands glowing, facing a young woman whose magic was clearly out of control.

He frowned and wondered if he could do it… walking closer to her, he dodged a fireball—he really didn't want to deal with anymore fire on this world!—and got near enough to let loose a powerful blast of his own specific brand of magic. He had tried when he'd first arrived, but Templar magic didn't seem to work here…

Until now. It was just a cleanse, but it was shocking enough to the out-of-control mage to cause her to jump in surprise. Alistair said, "Sorry about this," and then punched her straight in the face.

She slumped to the floor, unconscious.

"Alistair, did you have to hit her so hard?"

It was Wynne! Alistair couldn't believe his eyes. The one that Sherry kept referring to as "the old woman" was Wynne!

"She's not even bleeding," he defended himself. "Not a bruise, either."

He almost hugged her, he was so happy to see her. But he didn't know her all that well, so he restrained himself for almost a full minute. Then, he said, "I'm so happy to see that you're alive, Wynne!"

"Well, I'm happy to see you, too, Alistair. Where are we, and how did we get here?" she asked him.

He hugged her then, anyway. She was a strong reminder of some of the good things of Thedas.

"Alistair, you're acting very strangely. Are you alright? And where ARE we?"

"It's a long story," Sherry interrupted. "Perhaps all of you should sit down. Perhaps Buddy's Place would be the best spot… but what are we going to do to keep Marianne from wrecking it?"

"Now that Alistair is here, she should be controllable. Provided she's not an abomination, he should be able to control her magic well enough. He is an ex Templar."

"A Templar?" Sherry looked wary. "You mean like the Knights Templar?"

"I don't know what 'Knights Templar' means," Wynne replied. "Alistair was trained as a Chantry Templar, though."

It took some time to explain the whole concept of the Chantry, but when they finally had some understanding of each other, Sherry's face flickered with something that Alistair thought could have been fury.

"Religion," she said coldly. "Take a look around you. We live in near squalor thanks to religion. If you ever get the notion that you want to spread it around here, believe me when I tell you that I'll kill you first."

She stalked away and the gathered mages, as well as Alistair, stared after her in surprise. "What was that all about?" Wynne asked Alistair. "And where is she from? Her accent is very strange."

"She's from here, and we should go to the Cafeteria and let her explain."

Alistair carried the inert Marianne to the meeting, and the mages were invited to get food before Sherry told the story of people arriving on the world called Earth by falling from the sky. It took some doing, and Alistair had to frequently help with parts of the explanation. But at last, the facts were laid out.

By that time, the mages were done eating, and to Alistair's discomfort, Marianne was starting to rouse, as well.

Sherry sighed, her eyes meeting Alistair's. "It would seem that magic has come to Earth."


	14. Philosophical Differences

**14. Philosophical Differences**

Marianne sat up, glaring around her as if her difficulties controlling her magic were someone else's fault. Her eyes fell on Alistair and she snapped, "What are you looking at, pretty boy?" Then, anger in every line of her body, she said, "If you ever do that again, I'll kill you."

Sherry saw Alistair wince at the obvious mockery of his remaining facial scar. Stepping in to head the confrontation off at the pass, she told Marianne, "You'll die right after him." She crossed her arms and gazed directly at the other woman. "I won't tolerate your nasty behavior in my compound, Marianne. This is not his fault."

"I won't allow anyone to hit me and get away with it," Marianne retorted.

"You need to learn to control yourself, or that will happen a lot more often." Sherry wasn't going to argue with her. She couldn't stand Marianne—never had been able to. Even as a child, she'd been sharp and spiteful.

"From whom would I learn that?" Marianne crossed her arms and glared at Sherry belligerently.

"These are mages from the other world. At least a couple of them are instructors. They can—"

"They couldn't even stop me from destroying the Commons, you really think they're able to teach me anything? I'll figure it out on my own!" She got up and started towards the door.

When Alistair moved to intercept her, Sherry told him, "Let her go. She's not one of my people, I can't and won't hold her."

"An untrained mage is dangerous," Alistair's face was wreathed in concern.

"She's someone else's danger, then," Sherry told the older mage. "I won't hold people against their will. It's not how things are done here, and it won't be." She ignored the look on Alistair's face, and turned to Marianne. "You get out of my compound immediately. Don't come back until you're under control. If you do, and you hurt even one person, you're dead on sight."

Marianne's eyes clashed with hers, but she was surrounded on every side, as well as outside, and she knew it well. "Fair enough," she said finally. She walked out, slamming the door behind her.

Wynne objected in Ferelden, "You're just letting her go?"

"I won't hold someone against their will," Sherry answered in kind.

But as Wynne made to answer, the door banged open and a group of metal-clad men stomped in.

"Oh look, it's the Grim Reaper Brigade," Sherry said wryly. At the peculiar looks it brought her, she shook her head slightly and turned to face the man in the lead.

"Sharon—"

"—Cullen," he corrected her with his typical stony glare.

"—how nice to see you!" She crossed her arms. "I'm a bit busy, what is this about?"

"I understand the mages have awakened." He looked around him at the assortment of robed people sitting at the tables. "I have come to take them into custody. They will need a—"

"I'm sorry, you've done what? And under whose authority?"

"The Chantry demands—"

"There is no Chantry here, Cumin," Sherry told him.

Impossible as it seemed, his scowl deepened, "Cullen. The Maker intends—"

"You and this 'Maker'. Let's get something clear between the two of us right here and now. My world was destroyed by the war between the Christians and the Muslims. Allah never bothered to show up. Jehovah never bothered to show up. Your Maker bailed on your world. All of the Gods are gone, it's just us humans now. In this compound, I'm the boss of you. I'm the boss of everyone here." Sherry was angry in large part because she didn't want religion in her compound. She turned a blind eye to it provided it didn't harm anyone and it wasn't evangelistic, but she kicked out those who proselytized immediately.

And she'd never liked this guy. He refused to learn English, he was truculent and abrasive, and he carried on constantly about this 'Maker'.

"The mages must be controlled. They cannot be allowed to run around. They are the most dangerous people you'll ever see," the stoic Templar argued.

"Sit down," Sherry told him.

Over the next few hours, she listened to Wynne, then another mage, then Cullen. They each explained from their own perspectives who and what mages were.

"So the consensus is that mages are dangerous—"

"And they MUST be controlled!" Cullen's plate-clad hand slammed down on a table. At Sherry's glare, his hand dropped away.

"—and that the danger they pose is through an accident of birth, not any fault of their own."

Cullen broke in again, "That doesn't matter. It doesn't make them any less dangerous—"

This time, Sherry cut him off. "It does matter. These are human beings, and they will be treated like it. I have heard your story and I have great sympathy for what you've been through. But when you let it turn you into a monster, then you become what you hate."

He subsided, but his angry glare didn't retreat in the least.

"This is my home. You are among Americans, and as long as there's been an America, we've been innovating and figuring out ways to survive, just as we survived the religious holocaust. We'll find a way that offers mages a degree of human dignity and freedom, yet also provides the rest of us with a degree of security. When we forget that any group of people are human beings, we become our past and are doomed to repeat it."

She got up and paced. "The first thing that will happen is that all of you will learn English. Even you," she pointed directly at the recalcitrant, belligerent Templar. "If you can't communicate with the people around you, you can't get help when you need it. Learn it or leave."

"We'll leave. That's the best idea, anyway," Cullen growled.

As he stood, Sherry told him, "You are no prisoner. You are welcome to go. But you won't be taking the mages with you, unless they want to go."

"They are under our—"

His argument was cut off as Sherry swiftly jerked his sword from its scabbard and crossed it over his neck with her katana. "Not anymore."

Another Templar moved forward, his sword flashing out of the scabbard with a ringing 'shing!' sound. Sherry slapped his hand hard with the flat of her blade to disarm him, whacking his thumb so hard that even through the plate, he lost his grip. Then she sliced easily through the leather buckle straps on his plate skirt and dropped it to the floor. Without hesitation, she kneed him in his now unprotected groin.

Before he even hit the floor, Sherry's sword was at Cullen's throat again. "I am the boss here. You don't dictate to me. Ever. I'll sooner kill you than hand these people over to your 'tender' mercies. However dangerous they may be, you are cruel and harsh. They deserve to be treated like people. You were hurt, and I get that. But while you may cause it to turn you into a monster, I won't allow the monster you're becoming to take these mages into his 'care'."

He glared at her with mindless hatred for several moments. Then she saw something shift in him, and he spread his hands. "Fine. We'll stay here and watch over them from here."

"You'll find a way to do it in cooperation with them, not as bullies and controllers."

He sighed. "We'll try."

"Not good enough. You'll do it."

His eyes narrowed. It was clear he didn't like her, and Sherry didn't care. "Yes, Ser," he finally answered. As he turned to walk out, the group of Templars with him glared at her and followed.

She sighed and sat down. She looked at Wynne. "Do you think it can be done?"

Wynne raised an eyebrow. "You seemed pretty confident a minute ago."

"Feral people are like feral animals. Never show fear or uncertainty."

"Isn't that a bit unfair?"

"I don't think so. In fact, it may be a conservative estimate. That is a broken man. He's not just a feral animal, he's a wounded one, and those are actually the most dangerous kind."

She turned to Alistair then. "In other news, Alistair," she said in English, "I got word that your friend Loghain is amassing an army in the Portsmouth area. It would seem that his animosity has spread from you, to my entire compound. Would you care to explain to me why he's after you?"

She watched him squirm and wondered at the reason for it. It seemed she wasn't the only one with secrets.


	15. Bringing out the Big Guns

**15. Bringing out the Big Guns**

Over the following hours, Alistair began to get a really good grasp on the idea of controlled chaos. Leaving the meeting, Sherry led groups of people into a massive underground storage area, and they began bringing out large pieces of equipment, the likes of which Alistair had never seen before.

"What is that?" Alistair asked of a particularly complex looking, large device.

"It's a gun, Alistair. One of seven M420s that we liberated from the Pease National Guard base after the war. We'll mount them on the walls."

"What's it do?"

"It kills. It kills fast, and messy, and without prejudice. All from a great distance."

Alistair shivered, his blood running cold. Something seemed unnatural about that.

"It's too bad we don't have any airplanes." It was Jesse coming up behind them. "We got one of them mounted, Ma'am. It took some rigging, but it's secure."

"Airplanes? Do I even want to know?"

Jesse looked at him, a slightly smug look on his face. "A flying machine. It can drop bombs on people."

Alistair's dislike of the other man intensified. "You made jokes about magic and scoffed at that, but you want me to believe in flying machines?" Shaking his head, he walked away, afraid he'd hit the other man.

Hours later, Sherry told him, "We really did have flying machines back before the war. There were some left at the base, but all too large to keep, and no one trained to fly them."

He looked at her, trying to determine if she was making a joke or not. "Okay," he finally said, not wanting to argue the point further. What did he know about this world, anyway?

Sherry was called away, and more guns were mounted on the walls. There were the now-familiar M420s, and several more that he was told were M2s. They totaled seven altogether, four of the M2s and three of the M420s. Alistair wondered how so few could make much of a difference against the encroaching mass of Darkspawn, but had to trust that Sherry knew what she was doing.

More equipment was brought out over the next three days, and some more recognizable ones were assembled. Catapults were among them, although they were somewhat different from what Alistair had ever seen before. It was, he thought, a strange world where horses and wood were so plentiful that they were used to make war machines more massive than houses.

The patrols were tripled, and the compound buzzed with activity day and night. Banging and clattering resounded seemingly without end as the smithy was manned in split shifts. Alistair had never seen anything like it.

He'd known skirmishes between Banns before. Seen the death and misery it brought. But these people… these people knew war like no Bann or even Teyrn he'd ever seen. He wondered how Loghain thought he could possibly come against this towering, fortified fortress, mounted with 'guns' and bristling with weaponry.

Yet he found himself preferring to ride out on the patrols. The noise, the oppressive and grim atmosphere of impending war rode him like a hawk. He was always in its cold, dark shadow within the walls of the compound.

Sherry rode out often, as well. They argued several times, because while he and Callbrith and Wynne often rode out together—Zevran sometimes accompanying them; Sherry would go alone more frequently than not.

"I can't find them," Sherry reported one day. "I think they've gone underground. The whole entire horde, so far as I can tell, is just gone. I found evidence of burrows, but it doesn't seem enough for them all."

She made plans and sent out troops on horseback. Alistair listened in at first on the military strategizing, but soon realized he had little to offer.

"She may be even better than Loghain," he told Wynne one day in the Cafeteria.

Jesse, who seemed to be ever-present to Alistair's way of thinking, said from the next table, "She's had more time to study than he has."

Another at the table scoffed. "You don't still believe that crap about her being two hundred, do you?"

"You would, too, if you had any sense," Jesse told him. "Think about it. Think about everything she knows. Nobody learns all of that in one lifetime, especially now when we have so few books left."

"Bah, fantasies," the other retorted.

"Whatever," Jesse replied. "I remember her from when I as a kid. She's no different now than she was then."

Alistair and Wynne left to go on patrol with the others, but Alistair couldn't stop wondering. Was it even possible? This world was so different. Flying machines, machines that killed from a distance, more horses than humans… it was strange and he felt suddenly homesick. Even for the Chantry, as unbelievable as that once might have been.


	16. The First World War

**16. The First World War**

They'd been out for over two hours when Alistair felt it. "Darkspawn," he said. He drew his sword and turned his horse. Callbrith, who had finally given in and learned how to ride, turned his pony as well, milling in the same uncertain fashion as Alistair.

Suddenly a low, sonorous sound erupted into the air. It was brassy and roared like an endless gong. The group stared at each other, uncertain and afraid of the new, unexpected sound that seemed both to come from everywhere, and nowhere at the same time.

A rider burst from the trees at the edge of the cleared area they were patrolling. It took Alistair a moment to realize it was Sherry, and she was shouting something he couldn't hear over the terrible sound that filled him with unaccountable dread.

As she neared, they finally made out what she was shouting, "RUN, RUN, RUN!" Turning tail, they started for the encampment, gripped by a fear they couldn't understand thanks to her unexpected appearance and the eerie, unnatural sound.

But Callbrith's pony, lazy on the best of days, wouldn't run. It shambled in the wake of the horses, and Alistair pulled up, afraid for his friend. Somehow, he felt that if the pony didn't get going, Callbrith would die.

But as Sherry bore down upon the pair, her katana appeared in her hand. Alistair felt a moment of unaccountable terror. She was going to cut Callbrith down, just like that! Why? Why would she do such a horrible thing?

It didn't happen. Instead, she slapped the pony so hard on the rump that Alistair heard the 'slap' of it even from where he stood. Suddenly having the good sense to be terrified, the pony bolted towards them. Alistair turned and raced towards the gates of the compound, seeing other patrols arriving and barreling through ahead of them.

They weren't going to make it, though. The ground boiled and stirred.

The Darkspawn had come!

Resonant booms sounded, and Alistair saw the ground around the compound exploding. The gates closed swiftly, and they were locked out. It was them, and a horde of Darkspawn as large as what he'd seen at Ostagar.

He dropped off of his horse, sword in hand. He fought hard, viciously slamming his shield into the face of the nearest Hurlock. He channeled his rage into a shout that he imbued with magic, drawing nearby Darkspawn away from his companions and onto himself.

He barely saw Sherry out of the corner of his eye. She was still mounted, and she was doing something he knew he'd never be able to do in his life—she had a weapon in each hand and was fighting on each side of her horse.

Then the Darkspawn wised up and the horse went down. He lost sight of her in the press of bodies. In the distance, the booming sounds had given way to strange repetitive sounds, the screams of Darkspawn, his own heartbeat and ragged breathing, and the whisper of steel against steel.

He sweated and slipped on blood, some of it his, most of it the enemies'. He kept near Wynne and Callbrith, glad for a change to have Zevran nearby also. But they were overwhelmed. Everywhere around them was a sea of bodies. They could never survive this. Alistair felt a strange sorrow overtake him. They were all going to die on a foreign world, for a cause not their own, in a place they barely knew, for a people who would likely not even be grateful for it.

Hours passed, and Alistair's muscles burned with fatigue. Time ran together, and the rumbling of the horde pressed down on him even more oppressively than the warlike atmosphere that had overtaken the compound.

Yet like everything, it had to come to an end. Alistair looked up through the blood and gore that covered him and dripped into his eyes. There were pockets of fighting in the midst of a field of corpses. Beyond them, Darkspawn were actually turning and shambling way, falling dead as they ran as if by a miracle—or an M420.

Evening had come while they fought, with long shadows crossing the land and a red nearly as deep as the blood he was slipping on tainting the sky. The sun's rays glittered redly off of the steel peeking through blood here and there, and Alistair saw it gleam off of the flashing katana in the midst of one of the heavier crowds of Darkspawn.

He realized then that the troops that Sherry had sent out earlier had flanked the Darkspawn from either side, and they had delivered—and sustained—heavy casualties. Horses and men lay sprawled in death across Darkspawn corpses, and the air was heavy with the scents of blood, body wastes, and burning flesh.

It would be over soon, certainly, but the danger was far from passed. He engaged another Hurlock, but he was weary and he had little strength left. He could swing his sword and protect with his shield, and that was it. Behind him, he heard Wynne's staff as it crackled with its inherent magic. But Zevran and Callbrith were also moving mechanically, exhausted beyond endurance.

Finally, finally, the Hurlock gave him the opening he needed, and he cut it down. He turned just in time to sink his sword deeply into the side of a Genlock that Callbrith faced, and then he breathed for a moment, choking on the rancid odors of war and death.

"Sherry!" Callbrith shouted, then began running, in a shambling, tired sort of way, toward a large knot of Darkspawn.

Alistair's heart plunged and then raced as he saw her holding her side with one hand, down on one knee, fighting valiantly with the katana in the other hand. Darkspawn were circling behind her, and she was too far away… too far away.


	17. Counting the Losses

**17. Counting the Losses**

The whole group ran towards Sherry, desperate to reach her. The race was on, with the humans, the elf, and the dwarf far more weary than the Darkspawn that also raced to intercept them.

Then behind him, Alistair heard a rumble, and he feared what he might see as he looked back. But as he did so, the group of mounted Templars, led by Cullen, roared past them, their iron-clad horses at full gallop as they swirled around the running group like water around stones.

They bore down upon the Darkspawn, a streaking stream of glittering red and gold lit by the dying rays of the sun. They blasted into the fight at full speed, horses striking Darkspawn so hard that the bestial humanoids flew like pins from the game the Earthers called "bowling".

Shouting and milling commenced with great fervor as the Templars clashed with the Darkspawn. In spite of that, Alistair saw Sherry fall, and it seemed to him even as he raced towards her with what little strength he had left, that it took her forever to topple to the ground. His leaden feet would move no faster, and time dilated, then slowed, then everything happened at once.

He was there with her, too late. Too late. Blood gurgled from her lips as Cullen sliced down the Hurlock whose sword was embedded in her lung. The sword, still held in the dying creature's grasp, wrenched free, and she gave a gurgling cry of pain. Alistair gave an inarticulate cry of grief as her body convulsed, arching and spewing blood onto his face to mingle with the gore already there.

He looked up at Wynne, his eyes begging her to save this woman who had come to mean everything—absolutely everything—to him. The grim and regretful look on her face, pinched with pain and grief, told him everything.

"I have no Power left, Alistair. If I had a Lyrium potion..." She shook her head. "I can do nothing, and she won't live long enough for me to—"

Cullen got down from his horse. "Take this one." His voice was thick with emotion, and Alistair looked at him in surprise.

He leaped up, gripping the Templar by the breastplate. "You were hoarding that? You had that the whole time?" He was screaming in his rage.

"I had to!" Cullen objected. "Without the Lyrium, I'll go into withdrawals and lose my mind. Are you going to protect these people from the mages? Are you?"

Conflicted, Alistair turned away from him. "I'll kill any mage that becomes an abomination."

"Really? Do you really have the courage to do that? You let Connor live—"

"Don't you talk to me about Connor!"

"Give me the potion already!" Wynne's voice cut into their mutual rage.

Cullen handed it over, and Wynne drank it all down. Then she turned and began to chant. Her staff glowed, crackled, and flickered with the magic it was channeling. Then Sherry was suffused in light.

She gasped and convulsed again, then lay quietly. An open, raw wound still showed through her leather armor. Alistair looked at Wynne in mute appeal.

"Take her home. That's all I can do without an injury kit, Alistair. I managed to heal the lung, which is the worst part. But the rest… her own body will have to do it."

Every muscle and bone in Alistair's body protested with screaming pain as he picked Sherry up and carried her towards the encampment. He refused all help, stoically carrying her all the way to the Big House and carrying her inside. He laid her down in her bed and went to shower. He didn't know what to do that would really heal her, but he did know what he could do to make her more comfortable.

So when his own bathing was finished, he went back in and stripped her gently, fighting his own heartache and exhaustion as she groaned even in her unconscious state. When she lay nude on the bed, he washed her, cleaning away the Darkspawn blood and hoping against all the odds that it hadn't entered her wound.

When she was clean, he left the room and wearily fell on the sofa. The next day, he made her drink some broth he'd sent for. Then he listened as Jesse reported the losses from the day's battle to him. He wasn't sure, but it sounded catastrophic to him. He promised that when she woke, he would report it to Sherry, and then closed the door behind the other man.

They had used more than three quarters of their ammunition. Of the flanking units, they had lost roughly half. The wall had been breached in one area, and fifteen of the twenty people on that section had been lost fighting off the invasion—though they had been successful.

Wynne came to see Sherry and informed Alistair in a weary, old voice that things didn't look good. If Sherry lived, Wynne told him, it would be only by the Maker's mercy. Without any injury kits—they'd all been used already—they had no hope of closing the wound on her chest.

Alistair sat beside her bed in the hard wooden chair and lowered his face into his hands. The horde had created wholesale devastation. The ground outside had been burned, and the stench permeated everything. Sherry lay dying. The compound might never recover. Loghain had an army. Sherry still didn't know why because Alistair had dodged telling her.

And now, it was too late.

Sherry, like Duncan before her, was dying because Alistair hadn't been there. His place was at her side, but he'd let her fight alone. He should have been beside his brother, he should have been beside his other, more real brothers—the Gray Wardens—but instead he'd gone with Callbrith and dutifully lit the fire that Loghain ignored.

He couldn't save them. He couldn't save Sherry. He couldn't save his own world, and he couldn't save this world. He didn't even know if the Archdemon was in this world, or the other.

Alistair realized, as he sat beside Sherry, that he was a failure in every possible way. He was too weary and heartbroken to even cry about it, so he sat staring at the floor, listening to Sherry's deep, rhythmic, unconscious breathing as life slowly drained out of her. Soon, he would change yet another in a line of blood-stained bandages, and despair of saving her.


	18. Truth be Told

_Thank you everyone for your patience. I do apologize, I had a LOT to do... I was making a fondant cake for family who was visiting from Florida. So sorry for the super long delay. Hopefully I will be able to update more often again. :)_

**18. Truth be Told**

Sherry woke to a sense of drowning. Pain tore through her nerves like molten flames, emanating from her lower chest and radiating out into every spot in her body. Agony ripped across her in fluctuating waves, and something distant tugged at her mind relentlessly.

She looked around herself and tried to take stock of her body. Darkness covered the room, and she made out a form in the gloom. For a moment, fear ripped into her with the knife's edge of terrifying vulnerability. Then she settled—it was Alistair, head dropped back on the chair, snoring restlessly.

Slowly, fighting for every inch, she sat up and pulled aching, protesting legs over the side of the bed. Eventually, she managed to stand in a sort of semi-crouch, and moved down the black hallway towards the kitchen.

She needed food. The right food, not the dead broth Alistair had given her the day before. Or was it the day before that? She wasn't sure—everything was a blur to her now. It seemed to take forever as time slowed to a crawl along with her.

Inching along the hallway, dragging one leg, she felt blood gurgling in one of her lungs and fought the overwhelming urge to cough. A single cough would become a life-threatening endless cycle of blood and pain.

A few feet further. Just a few more steps. It was a lifetime away, the familiar, ancient granite countertop. Then she would have to get out the mixer. Open the refrigerator door. Despair clamped down on her and somewhere in the distance, she felt that strange sense of connection tighten and swell. But she couldn't dwell on it. The kitchen was close—so very close.

Then she was grasped tightly and lifted, the world tilting crazily in a million directions before she found herself face-to-face with an irate reddish haired Warden. It was, she thought, the first time she'd actually seen Alistair look angry. And wow, he looked really, really angry.

"What do you think you're doing? You're in no shape to be running around like this!"

How well he spoke English, even when angry!

"I was almost there. So close," she told him weakly. "Just let me make some—"

"No. What were you thinking? I was right there. If you can walk, you can wake me!"

"You can't do this for me, Alistair. I have—"

"No. I won't let you do anything but rest. If you need anything, you tell me, and I'll—"

"Alistair, you couldn't cook a grilled cheese sandwich if someone gave you step by step directions." She tried to grin cheekily at him, but the joke was lost on him—he didn't know what a grilled cheese sandwich even was.

"I can follow directions," he glared at her, standing in the dark hallway holding her while the moonlight came through the window and made his face glow ever so slightly in its shimmering gift of pale brilliance.

She would have reached up to touch his cheek, if she'd been able to raise her arm. But the walk had worn her out to the point where she couldn't.

"You won't do it," she told him. She knew he'd refuse to make her what her body needed.

"Just tell me what to do," he said and laid her down with exaggerated care on the sofa—hurting her despite his best efforts.

So she told him to get the honey, and the raw kefir. She explained to him that it was milk that had been allowed to sit out and had bacteria added to it that aided digestion. He made a face but added the amount she requested.

Then she told him to add eggs. Raw, and from the cabinet instead of the refrigerator. She was surprised when he did so with little more than a disgusted look. But next, when she told him to add the meat raw, he stared at her as if she were a lunatic.

"I did warn you," she said. Her voice was fading with her strength, and she could tell he wanted to argue. "Don't give me any more cooked food, Alistair. No matter how sick I get, promised me that."

"You really eat this raw?" He obviously thought it was the most disgusting thing he'd ever heard.

"I eat everything raw—and only raw," she told him, her head drooping towards her chest. "Hurry, Alistair. I need proper food."

The mixer snarled. A cup pressed against her lips, and she realized she'd lost track of time while he blended it. She drank, and only barely registered his question…

"You've been feeding me raw meat, haven't you?" he asked her.

She winced and looked away.

"That's disgusting!" He was scowling at her, and she suddenly felt like a little girl. She wanted to cry.

"You're alive, aren't you?" she asked him. "Can we fight later?" She heard herself say it as if from far, far away. She watched through a narrow tunnel as his leg got closer and closer and then she remembered to blink just as her face slammed against it.

She didn't notice when he caught her and picked her up again. Within moments she was back in her bed, tortured by dreams of some distant call that she both feared, and longed for.

Alistair flipped the light switch and stood over her. Familiar black lines snaked away from the gaping wound in her chest. The progression was achingly slow. She should have been completely turned many hours ago, and yet it looked as if the infection had happened only an hour ago.

But there was no question of the truth. The taint had claimed her—it was only a matter of time now.


	19. Fading Dreams

_Sorry for yet another delay. I've not felt well the last few days. A bad, persistent cough that may be pneumonia. Thank you everyone for your patience. Thank you for the reviews, which I really, really love to read! And my thanks to those adding me to alerts and favorites, also! You guys rock!_

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><p><strong>19. Fading Dreams<strong>

There was something familiar about the sun-dappled lane she was walking along. The day was warm, the sun bright and hot; yet the shadows were cool and there was a mild breeze. Sherry stopped to hold her arms out and twirl like a little girl.

It was the driveway to the horse ranch she had grown up on. The memories stirred in the back of her mind like sweet, sleeping kittens beginning to awaken from a sunny nap.

Petals drifted down around her, and she smiled, turning her face up toward them like the first snow in late fall. They caressed her cheeks and slipped to the ground, rather than melting and turning her face the rosy pink of winter's first breath.

"How lovely." The voice didn't match the words at all. It was feminine, and deeply droll, even sarcastic.

Sherry whirled to see the strange dragon-woman sauntering toward her.

"Who are you?" she demanded. More because the beauty of the moment was shattered, than because she really cared.

"You can call me Flemeth," the woman replied. "It's as good a name as any, I suppose."

"What do you want?"

"What, no 'where are we?'?," the woman asked, her eyes amused.

"I know where we are. Placid H Ranch," Sherry answered, turning to look out on the nearby white-fenced pasture. "A place long ago lost to economic failure and bombs."

"Placid, huh? A fitting name for such a place," the woman replied, her strange white hair floating in the breeze that had died some moments ago.

Sherry shivered and turned away to watch the petals fall and squint against the sun that glittered through the leaves that also blew in the breeze that wasn't. "This is very strange. I shouldn't be here. This shouldn't be here." She looked back at the strange woman. "You shouldn't be here. You're not from Earth."

The woman's eyebrow rose. "How can you tell?"

Sherry shrugged. "I'm not sure how I know. But I know." She looked back up again, unnerved by the woman's presence and the perfectly rebuilt memory of a childhood she had nearly forgotten.

"This is the Fade, where many things are possible."

"Alistair's dreamland?"

"Alistair? Not the young Gray Warden who visited me with his dwarf companion in the woods so long ago?"

"He is a Gray Warden, certainly. From Ferelden. He's trapped on my world now." Sherry captured an errant petal with her hand.

"How interesting. I wonder how he got there?" The woman was closer now, her voice sounding right beside Sherry.

"I don't know. I don't know how any of them got here. But he—" She stopped before she revealed too much.

Suddenly, a bright blue arch appeared at the end of the lane. Flemeth turned to look at it. "Shall we?" she asked Sherry, her hand sweeping toward it.

"You just created that?" Sherry didn't trust the white-haired, horned woman in the least.

"Not I," came the reply, a sardonic, mocking smirk flittering across the other's face with the words. "That would be your creation. I suggest we go explore it."

"I…" she trailed off. She really did want to go explore it. The swirling blue drew her like a moth to the proverbial flame.

She walked into it, forgetting entirely the woman beside her. What memory lay on the other side?

They stepped into a library. The old library she'd used to research herself when she'd first begun to realize—

"What sort of place is this?" The words snapped her attention back to the horned woman.

"The library," Sherry told her. She reached out and touched the open book on the desk.

"That's you?" the woman reached out and touched the image on the book.

Sherry sighed. "Yes. It's me, in sixteen eighty-five. And look who I'm beside." The ancient painting had cracked in places, but the figures in it were clear.

She watched realization flicker across the dragon-woman's face. "Alistair?" Their eyes met, and when Sherry nodded, the woman looked back at the image. "Strange. Very strange." She said no more, looking from one book to another.

Sherry shifted uncomfortably. This was 'why him' as Jesse had asked her when he'd realized she was attracted to Alistair. Because even before the great religious apocalypse, she had seen him in ancient images. Paintings, then later on photos, often showed Sherry and Alistair together.

She'd recognized him after his burns had begun to fade. Before that, she had simply begun to appreciate his quirky personality. By the time she knew who he was, it was too late to put him back on the field and let him die—if she'd even had it in her to do so to begin with. Which she wasn't sure she could have.

"Who are you?" she asked again.

"I told you—"

"Nothing. You told me nothing. I could say you could call me Bozo the Clown and it would mean as much." Sherry stared the other woman down for a moment.

Flemeth chuckled. "You're wiser than I gave you credit. And you are who I think you are. But do you know that this cannot be stopped? Although it is the end, it is the real point of beginning."

Sherry narrowed her eyes and glared. It was a look that often quelled even adults. Flemeth didn't even flinch. "That makes no sense."

"Not yet," Flemeth replied with a cool, distant grin. "But it will, Sherry. It will." She turned towards a strange opening in the wall. "Do you mind?" she asked, sweeping her hand at it.

"Mind what?" Sherry felt confusion and frustration fill her.

The portal lit up with a brilliant purple and blue swirling Aether.

"Thank you," Flemeth replied and stepped through it. It flickered even as Sherry moved towards it. But it was gone before she got there.

Frustration roared through her, and Sherry turned to slam her fist down on the library table. The blue portal roared to life, and Sherry jumped into it before it could vanish again.

On the other side, she found herself looking up at a dragon who belched bluish green flames. She was repulsed by it, its loathsome hide dripping ichors and rotted through. Yet at the same time, some longing built up in her, a siren's call of longing so powerful that it knocked the breath from her body.

She tried to scream and found herself in her bed, Alistair holding her down as she flailed to get away from her own treacherous desires.

"Alistair," she gasped. Then she was closed up in his arms and panting through the burning fire in her chest. "Hurts so much," she whispered.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "The only thing I can do for you is to end it."

Her eyes met his and the realization of what he meant hit her with the blow of a sledgehammer.

"I'm dying?" she coughed, as if to confirm her own question.

"Worse," he murmured, and she heard genuine sorrow and anger in his voice. "You're turning into one of them."

His golden eyes held hers as the implications set in for her. The world crumbled around her, until the errant thought entered her mind. "So I've survived the religious apocalypse, only so I could die in the zombie apocalypse. Whoever said life doesn't have a sense of humor?" She tried to laugh but coughed instead. Black blood splattered against the leather tunic he wore, and she fell away from him back to the bed.

His warm hand remained in hers, and sleep fell over her again, a dark and kindly shroud that protected her mind from the horror encroaching upon her from the jagged wound in her chest.


	20. Decisions, Revelations, Uncertainty

**20. Decisions, Revelations, Uncertainty**

"Alistair, you got a minute?" Jesse asked, standing diffidently in the doorway and watching Sherry's labored breathing.

"She can't hear us," Alistair told him wearily. He didn't want to leave her alone even for a minute.

"There's another Gray Warden. I thought you might like to know. He's dying, and neither the physician nor the mages think they can save him. His name's Riordan, and when he heard you were here, he wanted to talk to you and Callbrith."

Alistair hadn't even let the other man finish speaking. He was almost out the door, with Jesse backing out of his way as he finished speaking. They were out the front door in moments, with Alistair shouting at Wynne to go stay with Sherry while he was gone. The spry elderly woman was across the compound and through the door even before Alistair was entering the commons where Riordan lay groaning on one of the many pallets on the floor.

He was in mid-sentence speaking to Callbrith. "—enough Lyrium in there for seven or eight new Wardens. With Loghain gone, the castle was in an uproar. I got the stuff from the headquarters and got out only a couple days ahead of Anora taking over and sealing off the castle…" He groaned again, and Alistair knelt beside him.

"I don't know about the blood, though. There wasn't much left. Only enough for maybe one or two—" his eyes glazed and he looked at Alistair. "Alistair! How are you?" his voice grew weaker but his breathing grew even. He looked up at the ceiling over their heads, his eyes locked onto it.

"What-?" Alistair began.

"I gave him morphine," the physician told him. "He's dying. It will ease the pain."

Alistair considered telling the man off, but it was too late. Riordan's eyes closed and his breath rattled as a deep sleep claimed him. Alistair stood up and opened the satchel with shaking hands.

"Did he explain to you?" he asked Callbrith.

"Yes, though getting these people to back off long enough was a challenge," the dwarf was clearly infuriated. "I nearly took this bronto's behind out behind the sheds for some proper etiquette lessons." He kicked the physician in the shin, earning himself a yelp and an enraged glare.

"Are you giving this to Sherry, too?" Alistair demanded of the man.

"Of course. She's dying, too, and you're going to have to face it eventu—"

Alistair cut him off. "Don't come near her again. Jesse, help me get Riordan into Sherry's house. And keep this fool away from there, or we'll cut him down."

The elderly man's face turned red, and he began to chuff with clear rage. "You can't tell me what to do! You're not—"

"Shut up, Gomer Pyle," Jesse told him sourly.

"You can't call me that. Only she calls me that, and—"

"What's a Gomer Pyle?" Alistair asked.

"An idiot, near as I can tell," Jesse's grin answered the question as well as his words.

"That's not true. Sherry respects me, and she appreciates my hard work around—"

"She thinks you're an idiot and a fool," Jesse snapped, his patience clearly worn thin from the discussion. "If she realized you are drugging her, she'd probably exile you."

"I am the only one who cares enough about her to see to it that she doesn't suffer!" the old man yelled, his chest heaving with emotion.

"You're going about it all wrong," Alistair told him. He turned to Jesse, "Let's get him into Sherry's house. I'll take care of him there."

The three, Callbrith, Jesse, and Alistair, picked up the gurney Riordan was lying on and carried him across towards Sherry's house, making it inside barely before rain began to sluice off of the windows. When they had laid him down in the same spot that Alistair himself had occupied for so long, Alistair walked over to look out the window.

The rain was dark with the ash from the fires that burned outside the walls, eliminating the Darkspawn corpses.

Beside him, Jesse reached out and plucked a tomato from a large plant. "There have always been rumors that she had a tomato tree in here. I never believed it. Funny I could believe she's hundreds of years old, but not believe in a tomato tree. I guess if they don't die from the weather, they just keep growing." He bit into the tomato. "Ugh," he said, spitting it out. "It's green!"

Alistair laughed as the other man walked disgustedly away. Then stared out the window again. They would have to set the fires again after it had dried out. The rain was a major setback, and it didn't look to be abating anytime soon.

Wynne came out of the back room as Alistair stared out the window. "She's restless. She calls for you often."

Alistair didn't look at her.

"Alistair," she said quietly. When he looked at her, he saw her face lined with worry. "You're very close to her, aren't you?"

"Not much longer, I suppose." He was feeling sorry for himself again. He sighed.

"Alistair, this is why Gray Wardens have to be so careful. What happens if you have to choose between her and killing the Archdemon? What if you have to sacrifice her for the—"

"I already have to make that choice, don't I? She's tainted."

Wynne gasped. "She's tainted? How can that be? Alistair, she should have turned already. You can't wait—"

"She's not turned yet. She'll be awake and looking at me when I do it. I can't just—"

"You have to! Everyone in this compound is in danger if you don't do what you have to do." She looked sympathetic, yet Alistair felt there was something cold and analytical in her statements, at the same time.

"Alistair, we cannot allow sentiment to cloud our judgment."

"Sentiment?" he asked her bitterly. "What sentiment, Wynne? Have you ever felt sentiment in your life about anyone or anything?"

"I wasn't always an old woman, Alistair. Of course I have. I care about you, and I care about her as well. Even Callbrith has grown on me."

"I won't wait much longer," Alistair promised and turned to look back out the window at the snapping lightning.

Wynne turned back to go back down the hall and Alistair stalled her. "See what you can do for Riordan, please? I'll go sit with Sherry."

He sat quietly at her bedside and let his head fall against the blanket that covered her. "I'm so sorry, Sherry." And deep inside, he wondered if he had the courage to take her life as he knew he had to, as he had promised Wynne he would. How far gone did she have to be before he could gather the courage—

His head snapped up. The Joining!

"Callbrith!" he shouted, then subsided and watched for a moment as she stirred restlessly.

He leaped up and ran down the hallway when she returned to her slumber.

"What's the matter with you?" Callbrith snorted at him, still in the house because of the rain.

Three pairs of eyes stared at him in chagrin as he barged into the living room, Wynne, Callbrith, and Jesse looking at him as if his sanity had fled. He didn't care. "The Joining, Callbrith. It could save her! If she were a Gray Warden, the taint couldn't take her—"

Callbrith's face had lit up with a feral certainty. "You're right! I've got the Lyrium, we can gather blood from the field. Not all of them are burned yet."

Suddenly, the rain didn't seem so sinister nor such an unwelcome sight to Alistair. Without it, they would be nearly done and there would be no blood left to gather. He ran from the building without another word.

For the first time in weeks, his heart sang with unrepentant hope.


	21. Of Mice and Men

**21. Of Mice and Men**

The burning pain in her chest drove her awake yet again. The world was dark and something warm and hard was pressed against her, putting pressure on her wound. She heard harsh, ragged breathing and realized it was her own.

She tried to push the offending weight away, and found herself perilously weak. Frustration built first as the pain intensified. Then she felt fear rising. But even as she struggled, the unexpected emotions filled her. Helplessness and fear rose in her, until at last she turned the corner down into the depths of despair. She was going to die there in the darkness, alone and helpless.

A sob broke from her, as misery descended in the wake of the despair. The weight lifted instantly and the sound of movement was followed by a blazing flare of light that drove into her brain like a dagger.

"Sherry? What's wrong?" Alistair's voice sounded from somewhere in the blinding brilliance.

"Light. Hurts." It came out as a whisper, all she could conjure. The light was gone instantly. One of her precious few remaining matches flared and the flickering light of the even more precious candle flickered in the darkness, limning Alistair's face in a pale glow. "Something was crushing me," she whispered to him. "It frightened me."

He looked guilty and she wondered.

"I'm sorry. I fell asleep with my arm across you."

"Hurts," she whispered to him. "Chest burns."

"It's getting worse," Alistair told her. "But we have an idea. We might be able to save you—"

"I feel different."

"Gomer Pyle was drugging you." He looked frustrated. "I stopped him."

"Thank you. Now I'm in withdrawal, though. I'm going to need—"

She was cut off as Jesse barged into the room, his form waving eerily in the candlelight. "Everything okay?" he demanded.

"I'm in a lot of pain," Sherry answered. "But I'm okay. I need a shake. Two eggs, orange juice, and the red powder in the blue jar—"

"Got it," Jesse darted out the door before she could even finish.

Alistair started to follow him, but Sherry called for him. He tucked his head back in. "Don't let Jesse help…" he agreed in that sort of offhand fashion that told her he hadn't listened, "… he's color blind." She finished after he had gone, certain that she shouldn't take more than the tiniest sip of the resulting shake until she was sure they'd gotten it right.

A few minutes later, after much arguing from the other room, and new voices being awakened by the fuss, they returned. She almost laughed, as they pushed each other jostled to be the first in the room to tell her the deed was completed. It was endearing—if childish.

She took the smallest sip of the drink as it was offered to her. She made a face, unsurprised yet still disappointed. She glared at Alistair. "You let him make it, didn't you?"

He protested, but looked guilty. She handed him the drink. "Jesse first." She waved her hand at him. "Go ahead, take a big drink." He looked mutinous, and she told him, "I can still kick your ass, Jesse. Later. But I won't forget."

He took a drink of the concoction and coughed viciously. "Aaaah! That's hot!"

"Now you," Sherry told Alistair. When he looked mutinous as well, she told him, "You let him help after I specifically told you not to." He still looked unhappy but took a much smaller sip of the drink. At the look on his face, she said, "Try again, with the red powder, not the dark brown cayenne pepper…"

A few minutes later, they were back, both much subdued. She drank the Philosopher's Stone shake and sank back against the bed, angry with the physician. As well as amused at Alistair having called him 'Gomer Pyle', for some reason she couldn't quite place. It wasn't as if he understood the reference.

Time passed and she floated in and out of consciousness, each time looking over to see someone sitting with her. Alistair, Jesse, even Callbrith put in an appearance. Each time she woke enough to do so, when she wasn't befuddled and confused from withdrawals, she got another shake.

She had no idea how long it took, but eventually she felt only the deepening pain of her wound, the peculiar longing for something she couldn't place, and the overwhelming sense of dread at the thought of dying with so much unfinished.

She eventually sat up and pulled open her shirt, since the unfamiliar mage sitting with her was both female and asleep. Vicious black striations ran out from the wound in her chest, which had torn loose from the stitches again and gaped grotesquely. Rib bones protruded obscenely from the rotted, greenish wound. But the smell that accompanied gangrene was not present, and the muscles beneath the rotting flesh looked bright, although blackened.

She was repelled by it, yet not. Almost as if something deep in her mind whispered that at last she was becoming what she'd always been meant to be. That soon she would be free and would never fear death again.

A scowl flickered across her face. She had only begun to fear death recently. Almost as if it weren't her own thought. She sensed that distant mind still, and heard its frustration. She had hit on something… but the sensation flickered away and she felt suddenly schizophrenic. What was she thinking? Was she going crazy? Another mind in hers? She shook her head and laid back on the pillow.

When she woke again, Alistair was there.

"Sherry, I don't think we can wait any longer. We're going to put you through the Joining. There's only enough for two people. It could save you from the taint, which is getting worse. Slower now than before, but still—"

"What's 'the Joining'?" she interrupted him.

"You'll be a Gray Warden…" he looked away.

"…if I survive," she finished for him.

He had the grace to look guilty. "It's the only way."

"No." The rebellion against it came from some place deep within her. Someplace far, far beneath the other presence.

"You'll die," he told her. "You might die anyway, but it's the only hope you have."

"The red powder. Triple the amount you put into the shake. Bring me one every hour," she argued. "It will heal me."

He lowered his face into his hands. "One day. If it's worse tomorrow morning, do the Joining?"

The desperation in his voice and his body thrummed through her with a deep pain, as if it were her own. Certain that the Philosopher's Stone could undo what was happening in her body, she reluctantly agreed. All of her 'voices' were silent, yet she felt the overwhelming disapproval of both of the other presences that seemed to be communicating with her.

She tried not to care, but was strangely pained by their censure. Yet the look of relief and hope on Alistair's face eased the pain of their rejection.

For the rest of the day, they brought her Philosopher's Stone each hour. The next morning, the encroaching taint had moved. Barely, but certainly. A frisson of fear ran up her spine. She couldn't imagine how such a thing were possible. It had never failed her before. Even Alistair was now fully restored without even a trace of scarring.

Yet it was leaving her to die to the taint of Darkspawn.

He carried her out of her home the next morning. She refused to hold the ritual in her home. If she was going to die, she told him, it was going to be in the sunshine, under an open sky. And not leaving the energy of death behind in her home, a place of sanctuary and peace.

Riordan was brought out as well, and he gave instructions from the pallet he was lying on.

When instructed to do so, Sherry drank from the old, cracked wine glass they used as a chalice. Jesse had drank before her, and survived, so she figured her odds were pretty decent.

But as the strangely exotic, sweet liquid slid down her throat, she felt agony scream through every part of her body as her flesh was peeled away and fire flared against every raw, exposed nerve.

She shrieked in her unspeakable pain, and then felt something horrific lurch and slide inside her belly, as if she were pregnant with a thousand vipers. Vomit swelled and then burst from her. It was all she could do to roll over and let it spew instead of choking her.

Beside her, she distantly sensed the shock and distress of the people around her. Then she looked up into the face of the dragon-woman, Flemeth.

"Fools! What have you done?"

"The Joining—" Sherry heard Alistair begin, but another brutal bout of vomiting overtook her and she felt herself being torn in two as the vile horrors in her stomach sought escape from the life-giving force of the Philosopher's Stone.

"You can't make the Keeper into a Warden, foolish boy!"


	22. Archdemon Secrets

**22. Archdemon Secrets**

The world fell away. Around her was darkness and boiling heat. She heard a thousand raw voices, raised in frenzied pain.

Behind it came a distant, echoing, sibilant call. "Sherrry…" Then, as she searched for its origin, it became more insistent, "Sherrr-eeee!" It was soft, lying underneath the din of magma and the screams of elated Darkspawn.

She clapped her hands to her ears as the horrific agony continued to tear through her. "Save me, Sherry," there seductive voice begged her. "Join me. You can heal me, Sherry." It said her name like a lover. It was quiet, so quiet that she had to strain to hear it.

Somehow, it was the most beautiful voice she'd ever heard. Filled with longing, it whispered to her, called to her. She looked up and saw the Archdemon crouched on a ledge far overhead. How had she ever thought it hideous?

It called to her. It loved her. It longed for her as no one and nothing else ever could. It knew her, and it loved her, and it could save her. No, not 'it,' but 'him'. And he was the most beautiful, perfect thing she'd ever seen.

"Revel in the pain," he whispered to her. "Use it. Channel it. Embrace it. Save me—deliver me from this wretched place. Together we shall bring this liberation, this love, to all of the Universe."

He leaped down into the abyss with her. His talons crushed Darkspawn recklessly, without so much as noticing. He walked toward her, willowy, sleek, and beautiful.

But another voice called. "Alistair—"

"Alistair must die. He can kill me. He can destroy me. Do you wish to see me destroyed? Do you wish to see my body broken and my soul chased away forever?"

The intense pain muted, pushed aside by a deeper agony. A loss so great that it oppressed her and closed in upon her more purposefully than a burial. "No!" she cried, sobbing wretchedly. But she wasn't certain what she denied or who she wept for. She knew not, the thought of whose death most broke her.

"Stay here, Sherry. Be with me. Together we will know no limitations, no boundaries."

The other voice was there, confusing her. It all seemed so clear, she should stay here, stay with the beautiful dragon who needed her so much. But that distant voice, crying her name, calling to her…

The dragon laid down around her, wrapping her in coils of slippery, hot flesh. His mind insinuated into hers, persuasive and cunning. He was brilliant, sleek, and sensual. Her body was on fire with gross agony, but he lit up her brain with perverse pleasures that made her writhe despite the liquid, molten burning of her flesh.

"Love me, Sherry. I have never been loved… if you can love me, you can free us all from this corruption. We will know no walls nor prisons. There will be only pleasure, only ecstasy." He flowed around her, his voice a silken caress on the edges of her mind. "Come, survey my domain. It will all be yours, and a thousand worlds like it, as well. Nothing will be denied you."

She found herself astride him, the feeling sensual yet underlain by a pain so intense that she fought to hold her rebellious stomach in check. It was rejecting… something. She couldn't remember, so she fought the nausea back. "That's right, my sweet, hold onto me. Keep me within you so that we can be together forever."

Beneath them stretched a Darkspawn horde more vast than anything she'd ever seen. The stadiums of old, before the apocalypse, were dwarfed by the immense, swelling mass of writhing Darkspawn.

Nothing could stop her. She could have everything. Anything. She was invincible on the back of this great dragon. The world was her oyster, everything belonged to her. She had but to speak and it would all be hers. Create a single portal and walk through it, and she would rule everything within the entire Universe. It would all be hers for the taking with nothing more than a thought.

Except… except Alistair.

The thought drove such a powerful shaft of despair through her that she lost her grip on the dragon and plunged towards the magma below.

"Nooooo!" came the sound of that sibilant, longing voice.

She found herself grasped in a talon. "Your mind is weak. Your hidden ambitions are excessive. When he is dead, you will be mine!"

She fell and landed on the ground with a thud that drove her breath away, yet ended the vast majority of her pain. She opened her eyes to find herself staring at Alistair and Flemeth.

"Am I dead?" she groaned

"Not yet. If you don't want to be, I suggest you stop trying so hard for it." Flemeth stood up and turned to walk away.

"You're leaving?" Alistair asked her, still kneeling beside Sherry.

"What would you have me do, boy, coddle you?"

"Can't you do anything for her?"

"You've done enough already. You're lucky she survived at all. I didn't think she had it in her." Then the other woman was gone out the gate.

"I really hate her," Alistair muttered. Then his eyes focused on Sherry. "There's another huge horde of Darkspawn coming. They'll be here by tomorrow afternoon at the latest."

"Excellent. Nothing to take the edge off of a terrifying experience like bad news." She tried to sit up, but she was weak and her wound felt raw and agonized.

"If she's got the energy for sarcasm," Callbrith said cheerfully, "she ain't dead!"

"Thank you, Callbrith, that's very helpful," Alistair snapped at the dwarf.


	23. Onslaught

_My huge thanks to those who reviewed, and I also appreciate those who are favoriting and subscribing. It really helps to know that it's being read, especially without reviews coming in, and with it being summer and all. Lot of busy folks, so the knowledge it's being read at all is encouraging. So thank you!_

**23. Onslaught**

Alistair was there when she woke up, after another couple of hours of intermittent sleep broken by sessions of vicious vomiting. She'd passed enough black sludge from her stomach to run an over-the-road Semi truck for a month. Ironic, since there were two in storage. Not so ironic, though… since it wasn't actually crude oil at all.

Alistair didn't get the joke when she told him. She hadn't expected him to, but did he have to stare at her as if she'd turned into a Darkspawn?

He showed her that she was healed of the taint—though not of her wound, obviously happy with the fact. She looked away from him. Her body might have rejected the black taint of the Darkspawn, but something dark still called to her. In the depths of her mind, or maybe her heart, evil had taken root. An evil beyond the rage she had overcome as a young woman. And evil darker and more insidious than the addiction she'd faced later on after the war.

And it wasn't just the call of the Archdemon, which she still felt. It wasn't the other Presence, either. It was some dark part of her that had awakened at the prodding of the dragon. Something unholy and violently aggressive. 'A hidden ambition', the dragon had called it.

She didn't know it. It was both foreign and yet familiar. Something she couldn't place and didn't understand.

She longed to tell him, but she feared his response. How he would hate her if he knew she'd nearly given in! How disgusted he would be if she exposed the growing weakness within her heart!

"Darkspawn still coming?" she had to change the subject.

"Yes. Jesse is also concerned that Loghain may be on the march. We've been getting a lot of reports about him—"

"Did I hear my name?" Jesse interrupted.

"Indeed. We're discussing Loghain, and the possibility that he's on his way here?" she ended it on a curious note, to see what his opinion was on it.

He sat down, stretching his long legs in front of him. It was one thing that had always bothered her about Jesse. He was surprisingly nonchalant about a great many things that should have made him more alert, not more relaxed.

"The reports are contradictory and scattered," Jesse told her. "One of the scouts had stated he's on the march this way, but it would seem likeliest that he's also going to attack the Darkspawn. We should make an attempt to contact him and coordinate an—"

"No!" Alistair's fist came down on the side table between the chairs he and Jesse were sitting in. "If I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times. We cannot work together with this man. He abandoned everyone on the battlefield, got thousands of people butchered. It's obvious that we cannot trust him!"

"You know. I know why the Darkspawn are attacking us so heavily—"

"Why?" Alistair interrupted her. "Why us? It doesn't make sense. Is it you?"

Holding up a hand to stave off his multitude of questions, Sherry answered him. "I should think it would be obvious, Alistair. You have multiple cells of Wardens on your planet, right?"

"Yes. Multiple barracks in each nation, really. Why?"

"Here, Alistair, there's you, Callbrith, Riordan, and now Jesse. That's all. If you knew that the only three people in the entire world that could kill you were all huddled up in a single spot, wouldn't you throw everything you had at it?"

Jesse gave a long, slow whistle. Alistair glared at him. "Are you really so stupid you couldn't figure that out already?"

Alistair scowled at him. "I'm not stupid—"

"Jesse!" Sherry rebuked, cutting Alistair's objections off.

"Anyway, what I don't know is, why would Loghain be attacking us?" She glanced at Alistair and found him to be turning red. She narrowed her eyes and glared at him. "Alistair?"

"My brother was the King. Loghain betrayed him, and there's no one else left to take the throne except maybe Arl Eamon."

"Wait. So he's going to attack our compound to kill one of the only three people who can kill the Archdemon, and all because he wants to rule a country on a planet he can't get back to?" Sherry pressed a hand against her aching temple. "Insanity. How did they know to send all the insane ones over here?"

Jesse snickered and Alistair covered a cough.

"Present company excluded, obviously," she sent Jesse a glare, and he had the chutzpah to grin cheekily at her. She threw a pillow. He caught it.

"Well. So you're in line to be King back on a world you can't get back to, and Loghain thinks it's important to kill you over here, just in case. In the meantime, we've got Darkspawn coming and are under constant siege. What else?" Summing things up didn't make her feel any better.

"Well, I think there's the possibility that he wants to rule here," Jesse said. "You're the only thing standing in his way, so it may well be you that he's on the way to kill." He threw the pillow back at her. "Or maybe he's going to propose so you can rule the world together." He grinned unabashedly.

"Good luck with that," she answered. "I'd rather marry the Archdemon." The smile fell away from her face as she realized that there was something sickeningly realistic in what she'd said—and the more unnerving because the Archdemon was a dragon and at least Loghain was human. She shuddered at the peculiar nature of the unbidden thoughts.

"I'll write him a note and tell him that he can rule the world, as long as I get to marry you instead," Jesse said. "We'll raise a flock of kids and live in Florida. He can have New England…"

She almost thought he was serious. He'd been trying hard to date her for a long time. But she grinned and told him, "It's kinda hard to get aroused by a man after you've wiped his arse and watched him pick his nose."

"Gah, I was five!" he threw his hands up in the air.

"Not when I wiped your arse," she told him. "You'd mastered that by then."

"Forget it, I'm going to go prepare for the invasion. You two try to remember that she's got an injury still, eh?" He sauntered out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Awkward silence filled the small space as the door clicked, and she studied her fingernails rather than look at Alistair and have him recognize what Jesse's offhand insinuation had aroused in her.


	24. Facing Feelings

_It seems that I forgot a chapter. So if you've already read it, please go back to chapter 22, and then re-read up to 24. My sincerest apologies for the confusion!_

**24. Facing Feelings**

Alistair felt like he'd just been punched. Very hard. Hard enough to feel like crawling into the kennels and hiding. Except they didn't have kennels here. He couldn't ignore the fact that while he was sick, Sherry had 'wiped' his 'arse' as well. He couldn't really blame her for being turned off by doing that. Still, he'd had hope before… more than he had now.

She cleared her throat and he looked up. "So yeah. Anyway."

He nodded. "I'm going to go see about the defenses on the walls." He got up.

"So you're not going to forget I'm injured, then?"

He couldn't help but notice that she looked slightly red. Was she blushing? He grinned at her, trying to hide the hurt her earlier words had caused. "I had forgotten, but I'm sure you haven't forgotten about wiping my arse when I was burned." As jokes went, he knew it was a bit of a flat one.

But she laughed anyway, "Ah, but Alistair, I've never seen you pick your nose. Besides, maybe your arse is better looking than a toddler's is."

He couldn't help but feel a little better. "I hope so. Otherwise I'd worry about you."

"Good news, then. Nothing to worry about on that score." She was definitely blushing.

"Are you trying to tell me that I have a nice arse?" He felt a little strange saying the word out loud. In front of a lady, to top it off. He supposed she was this world's equivalent of lady, anyway.

"I don't try to do things, Alistair, I just do or don't."

He realized that he had an opportunity, and he didn't know what tomorrow would bring. "I wanted to tell you something, Sherry."

"What is it?" A frown of concern creased her brow.

He lifted a hand to stall her obvious concern. "I just wondered…all this time we spent together... you know: the tragedy, the brushes with death, the constant battle and the whole blight looming over us... will you miss it once its over?"

"Miss the constant battles, or miss you?"

"I know it might sound strange, considering we're from different worlds and all that, but I've come to… care about you a great deal." He was afraid she'd remind him of the whole arse business, so he kept going. "I think it's because we've been through so much together. I…I don't know. Or maybe I'm imagining it. Maybe I'm fooling myself. Am I?" He raised his eyebrow, unable to decipher the look on her face. "Fooling myself…or do you think you might ever feel the same way about me?"

He was mortified when she started laughing. He wasn't sure what to do, run away or maybe just melt. Then she said, "Alistair, how can you even ask me that?" she managed, when obvious pain made her stop laughing almost immediately. "Everyone but you knows I've been in love with you almost since you got here. Maybe before that. How can anyone be that dense?"

He ignored the fact that she'd just called him 'dense' and moved over to kneel beside the bed. "You have?"

She laid her hand against his face. "I'm sorry, Alistair. I shouldn't have laughed. I thought you knew. Everyone else knows." Her face grew still and quiet. "Of course, I didn't know how you felt, either. So I guess it's not that funny after all." She looked sad and his heart stopped for a second. "You saved me, Alistair. In the darkest moment, when I was about to give in to the Darkspawn taint, you saved me."

He grasped her hand and held it against his face. Then he leaned across the bed and kissed her. Her lips were soft and warm against his, yielding immediately to his. He curled his fingers through her hair, finding it also incredibly soft and delicate. Her arms circled him and pulled him closer. He fought to remember that she was injured.

It was only a moment, a sweet, blissful moment; before her arms began to tremble. He knew she'd cling to him anyway, so he pulled away from her. "I shouldn't have done that. I should let you rest."

"I need less rest, Alistair." Her eyes were sparkling at him with obvious invitation. "And more exercise and excitement."

He felt his face heat up, but replied, "I'll have to see what I can do to arrange that. In the meantime, I really do need to go check on the defenses."

She sounded distant as she replied, "Come back soon. And Alistair?" she stopped him as he was quietly leaving.

"Yes?" he said softly, as it was obvious she was more asleep than awake.

"Sleep in the bed with me tonight?"

"I… uh…"

"Just sleep, Alistair."

"Okay." He started to close the door.

"Good." It was faint and distant; she was asleep at last.

He felt guilty for wearing her out to the degree that she fell asleep so abruptly. Yet, he didn't at the same time. It was worth it to know that she cared for him. He was grinning as he left her house, poking Callbrith to wake him on his way out. Even elated from their conversation, he didn't leave her unprotected.


	25. Elephants and Tyrants, Oh My!

**25. Elephants and Tyrants, Oh My!**

Alistair and Jesse marshaled every resource Jesse knew of for the upcoming battle. They reinforced the walls and added oils to them so that they could use a basic burning oil defense. They put more ammunition within close reach of the mounted wall guns, one of which was in sorry shape—over a hundred years had taken its toll on it, even in storage. The handle had deteriorated to the point where it turned to powder at a touch. Alistair found a way to wrap it in leather, resulting in an hour-long conversation with the blacksmith.

Eventually, the work was done, and news had come in that the Darkspawn were definitely on the way. There was no news of Loghain, but Alistair remained skeptical, despite Jesse's cheerful certainty that they'd know if he was coming, so obviously he wasn't.

But the reports of Darkspawn activity grew increasingly worrisome. There was some sort of "massive something" with the crowd of Darkspawn coming their way. They were moving over the land rather than under it—disturbing enough in itself. But there was this "gigantic beast" that the scouts kept reporting that had Alistair on edge.

Finally, Sherry asked him point-blank what was bothering him, and he told her. She was much improved, and got better every day. But the wound on her chest kept her confined to her house. He was glad she was up and making her own shakes, but he could tell she was chafing at not leaving her house.

He'd spent the night with her all three nights since the first, but he simply couldn't sleep. With her so near, he found sleep nearly impossible. She was also a very restless sleeper, rolling over constantly and shifting in her sleep. Every night it got worse as her wound improved and restricted her less and less.

"They're on the approach. We'll be able to see them in a couple of hours, using binoculars."

He whirled to find her walking up behind him. She moved slowly, obviously in pain, but she looked cheerful, even anticipatory.

"You just can't stop yourself, can you?" he asked her, amused that she'd left the house despite both Wynne and the physician adamantly telling her to stay inside it.

She sobered and looked at him with a direct, penetrating gaze that made him shift and squirm. "They are my responsibility." As she said it, her hand encompassed the compound. "I've neglected them too long already."

She held a black device in her hands, and he wondered what new surprise was to come. Usually, when she was holding something unfamiliar, something exploded, someone died, loud noises gave him a headache, or various other uncomfortable sorts of mayhem went on. Whatever happened, he was sure it was a sign of bad things to come. 'Technology' had become a four-letter word to him.

As if she'd read his mind, she laughed. "Relax, Alistair. It's just binoculars, not a machine gun this time."

He grinned sheepishly, and helped her up the ladder to the top of the wall. He watched as the breeze lifted her hair and swirled it around her face. He remembered the first time he saw her, and thinking she wasn't particularly beautiful, more like interesting. What had he been thinking, he wondered?

She lifted the binoculars to her face and began sweeping them back and forth. "There!" she pointed randomly in the direction she seemed to be looking. "Here, take a look."

She offered him the black device and he waved it away. She chuckled.

"Don't worry, Alistair, it's harmless."

He sighed and took them, pressing them against his face. For a moment, he saw inside only blurry green and gray. She adjusted something on them and suddenly there were Darkspawn directly in front of him. Yelping, he grabbed his sword and nearly fell backwards off of the wall.

"Whoa, easy! They're miles away still!" She calmed him, though he still felt as if his heart would burst from his chest.

Pulling them away, he compared the two views. "They're not that harmless if they give me a heart attack," he answered. "I think I almost wet myself."

She giggled, but obviously tried to control herself when he gave her a dirty look. She fought the grin that was clearly winning, and said, "I'm sorry. I didn't think to warn you."

"Didn't think to, or didn't bother to?" He couldn't help but find her amusement both a little grating as well as somewhat contagious.

"Didn't think to. But not to worry, I wouldn't have if I'd have thought of it." At that, they both laughed.

He took a deep breath and raised them to his eyes again. He surveyed what he could make out of the horde. They were a mass of moving flesh, perpetually eager for death and chaos. He sighed and handed it back to her. "I can't see all of them, a lot are in the trees, it looks like."

"They're coming, though. They'll be at the gates by evening."

"That fast?" He hoped to postpone it until daybreak if possible.

"Definitely. If not sooner. They're moving fast—" She pulled her face away and looked out across the way, her sentence cut off by a look of chagrined surprise. "Oh, that's not good. That's really bad. That's really, really, really bad." She was looking back through the binoculars before she had finished speaking.

"What?" A frisson of fear ran through him. So far as he could tell, Sherry was almost entirely fearless. Anything that she thought was 'really, really, really bad' was probably enough to literally make most people wet themselves.

"That's a tainted elephant. It must have been at a zoo and survived. I can't believe they survived here, much less reproduced. This is not anything like their natural environment. And now it's on their side." She shuddered.

"What's an elephant?" he felt stupid, despite the fact that of course there was no way for him to know. He wasn't an Earther.

"It's a massive animal. They live in Africa and Asia, mostly. In the deserts, I think. I don't know all that much about them. But what I do know is that they can pull up entire trees with their trunks, and push the walls down. They're that big and that powerful. I wonder how many of them that thing slaughtered before they managed to taint it."

Alistair laughed. "You're yanking my chain, aren't you? That's a joke."

When she turned to face him, the grim, closed look on her face shocked him. "No, Alistair. No joke. That's an elephant, and there's pretty much nothing that can stop it. It weighs several tons, can uproot and carry around trees, and it takes more than a machine gun to kill it. We don't have an elephant gun, and we were out of armor-penetrating rounds a few hours into the first battle." She turned to slowly lower herself down the ladder. "I've got to talk to Jesse."

Alistair stared through the binoculars for a moment, seeing the elephant just before it disappeared into the woods. It was massive indeed, with shriveled gray flesh lined by the rotting red and black of Darkspawn taint. He wondered what color it had been before, and if it had lost all of its hair. It was ugly, he thought, but even more frightening than ugly. The forest bent and shifted visibly where the creature passed, leaving a mangled trail behind it.

He went to follow her, but hadn't taken the binoculars down yet. He was about to drop it down when a bright flash caught his eye. He sought the spot where he'd seen it, and saw a man on horseback enter into a clearing in the woods. At first, he thought little of it and was about to lower the binoculars. But then more men followed the first. A steady line of them broke the clearing, and he realized what he was seeing.

This was an army, approaching from the west while the Darkspawn approached from the south.

"This is not good," he whispered. "This is bad, really, really, really bad."

Then he climbed down the ladder in Sherry's wake. Loghain was coming, and their tiny compound was caught right in the middle of the traitor and the tainted beast.


	26. Trust is Earned

**26. Trust is Earned**

They were as nearly surrounded as they could be by heavily armed horsemen and militia on foot. Yet to Alistair's surprise, Sherry was entirely cool and collected. Jesse, on the other hand, seemed almost panicked.

She stood on the wall, shouting to the men below. "In less than six hours, you'll be begging me to let you into these walls."

"You can't let them in! At the first sign of trouble, they'll turn on us and slaughter us all!" Jesse was walking back and forth behind her in obvious agitation.

"That's why they will surrender their arms at the gate, Jesse. Don't be stupid," she snapped.

"You're the one being stupid! You can't let the wolves into the hen house!"

"I cannot leave them out there to die. They're human beings. And, they can be turned into Darkspawn, which makes it even more important to talk them into the compound before they get here." She glared at the other man.

"Why would we beg to be let in there? Are you having a party? Should we have invitations?" The man in the front of the group shouted up.

Sherry sighed. "You do realize that we have mounted machine guns up here? We can slaughter the majority of you before you ever reach our walls. And the ones who do, will be cut down before you can climb them."

"We know about your guns. But we also know that you won't use them on humans. It's your extra special moral code. See, that's the problem with rigid moral codes, Walker. They can get in the way sometimes." His horse snorted and pawed as he spoke, the other horses in the group also nervous and obviously sensing something amiss. He pulled it around, trying to control it in its clear agitation.

"Is that why your people have no honor?" Sherry shouted down to him.

"We have honor, Walker. We just have a higher rate of self-preservation than you do. And sometimes, to take proper care of people, you have to break a few rules. This region needs discipline, solidarity." He clamped his horse's head against its chest with the reins, trying to fight its rising restlessness.

"What's your name, soldier?" she asked him.

"Hooper," came the distant response.

"Listen Hooper, if you don't have a moral code, you're easily manipulated. Just as you have been by Loghain. I'm going to give you another chance to save yourself and your soldiers. Come inside and lay down your weapons at the gate. You won't be harmed, I promise you that. If you know my moral code, you know I cannot break that word nor allow it to be broken within these walls without the most dire of consequences."

"The problem is, Walker, you have to convince us to be afraid enough to come into the walls first." His horse along with several others began to buck viciously.

When his horse was back under control, Sherry continued. "You're surrounded on every side by a massive Darkspawn horde, Hooper. They'll crush you between them and the walls. And we won't open the gates again after they arrive. You'll be destroyed to a man—because I won't hold back the guns at that point, even with humans in the way."

"You're lying," Hooper accused, swearing when his horse darted forward.

"Why do you think your horses are acting like that, Hooper? Did you think it's because you didn't shower this morning? You're surrounded by Darkspawn, man. The biggest bunch we've seen yet."

"Is that true?" he yelled back.

Jesse leaned over the wall, "It's true."

"Alright," Hooper yelled. "We'll come in, if we have your word no one's to be harmed."

"You'll lay down your weapons at the gate," Sherry told him. "And make it fast."

"We can fight," he replied. "If there are that many Darkspawn coming, you'll need us."

"We need to trust the people at our backs more than we need extra hands. Would you trust someone who has admitted to you that he has no morals?" She waved for the gates to be opened.

"You're going to regret that later! You'll need us!"

"Surviving the Darkspawn to be massacred by traitors doesn't do us any good at all." She glared as he rode in through the gate, discarding his weapons. "Armor, too."

"I'm naked under it," he grinned cheekily at her and Alistair felt rising irritation with the other man.

"That's good. The stink alone will run the Darkspawn off."

"Oh, she's funny. I like her." He peeled the armor off, revealing leather tunic and breeches.

His men followed suit, and the group of them were escorted to the Commons where they were locked in, the door bolted from the outside.

Alistair pulled Sherry aside. "Why did he believe it when Jesse confirmed the Darkspawn presence?"

"Because he's a man, Alistair. On Earth, a man's word means more than a woman's. If you'd said it, he'd have trusted your word over mine, too."

"I don't think so," Alistair told her. "Trust is earned. He trusted all too quickly."

She scoffed. "You're being paranoid, Alistair. It's a man thing. When you've been here longer, you'll understand."

He watched her walk away, and looked over at Jesse. The trusting capitulation wasn't the only worrying factor. How had Jesse's scouts missed such a massive force? Why had the others been so certain that Sherry wouldn't use guns on them? Was it just a well-known fact, or had they been told?

Jesse caught him looking at him and raised an eyebrow. Alistair shrugged and turned back to return to the wall and look through the binoculars. Everything seemed peaceful, but he could track the movement of the elephant through the woods by the swath it cut through the vegetation.

He felt like six hours might have been a conservative guess. He figured they had maybe four at most.


	27. A Semi Success

**27. A Semi Success**

The beast lumbered out of the forest to the sound of the underground perimeter alarms. Their long, low, sonorous call was unnerving to Alistair, and he was glad when they finally stopped.

"I've never seen an elephant," a young man behind Alistair said. "It's ugly."

"They're not as ugly when they're not tainted. Though they're still gray and saggy," Sherry told him.

Alistair grinned as the kid blushed and squirmed to be noticed by what amounted to the ruler of the compound. "Yes, Ma'am," the boy muttered.

She turned to Alistair then. "I can only think of one thing that will slow that down. It'll either work, or it'll fail abysmally. Let's go see if we'll even get the chance to try it."

He sighed. "I'm not going to like this, am I?"

"Nope. Not even a little bit," she said cheerfully.

She led him back into the back storage tunnels, guiding him with a torch. Along the way, they ran into soldiers, standing at torches in the dark. He knew they were waiting for Darkspawn in the tunnels. "Callbrith can feel them coming," he told Sherry.

"Yep. He's in the back, it's the lowest section. The dwarves have carved it out, and they're very happy there. All except your Callbrith, that is."

"He was castless, and couldn't wait to get out of Orzammar. Probably feels too much like home to him." Alistair was trying to distract himself from the oppressive feeling of being enclosed in stone.

"Here we are. Let's see if the solar generators still work." There was a click and then light flooded the massive chamber. "Look at that!" she sounded pleased.

The room was full of huge machines and boxes and shelving. It was massive, as well, though it felt damp and cold. Water dripped and there were rocks all over the floor.

"I come in here every six months to make sure everything's okay. The truck started last time I was in, so it should start up now. You never know, though. After a hundred years, a lot of things just up and quit working at some point." She walked over and tried to pull a lever on the wall. "Can you pull this down, please?" She looked irritated with her own weakness.

He kissed her on the top of the head. "You'll get there, Sherry."

She sighed and leaned against him for a moment. He pulled the lever and jumped as a grinding growl cut through the air.

Then with a rumble, a huge door began to open upwards. Alistair found himself staring at a group of people whose activities had been interrupted by the rising door. He had no doubt that their faces mirrored the expression on his own.

When the initial surprise wore off, there were snickers, and Alistair guiltily pulled away from Sherry, who grinned at him. "I think we just got caught making out," she told him.

"Making what?" He was clearly missing something.

"Making out. You know." Her grin grew. "Kissing, Alistair. And groping. A little"

"I didn't grope!" he objected, which made her laugh.

"Come on, let's see if this thing will start," she told him.

"What's all this?" Jesse asked, coming around the corner into the massive storage area.

"Storage, Jesse. Obviously." Sherry sounded impatient, and Alistair felt the same way.

"You've been sitting on all of this the whole time? You didn't tell anyone?" At Sherry's shake of the head, he glared and demanded, "What if you had died? No one would have known this was even here!"

"Don't worry, Jesse, that wouldn't have happened. Even if I'd died—"

"How can you say that? And what were you saving all of this for? Don't we all deserve to have access to it?" His arms were crossed and for the first time since Alistair had met him, he looked decidedly angry with Sherry.

She got in his face and asked, "What would you do with it, Jesse? You going to drive that?" she pointed and then continued, "or are you going to replace the pistons on the other one? With what, pray tell?" She crossed her arms and glared back. "Don't get snitty with me. I'm going to be driving that out of here. If you can't do it yourself, then get out of my way and stop acting like you're the big boss around here."

"Fine," Jesse growled at her. "But I think you're wrong to hide all of this stuff. We could use it!"

"We ARE using it today, Jesse. Stop acting like a child and gather a team to escort me on horseback. I need an extraction team to get Alistair and me back here and through the gates without getting the compound over-run."

"Why you? Why does it always have to be you?" Alistair asked. Fear was clenching around his heart like nothing he'd ever experienced before. "Why can't someone else do it?"

She shot him an angry look, as if he were taking Jesse's side against her. "You gonna drive it, Alistair? Go ahead. One of you climb on up there and drive it. I'll watch from the wall. No? How about one of them?" She walked out of the store room and asked the spectators, "Who here can drive stick shift? Nobody? Nobody? Fine."

She looked back at Alistair and Jesse, her eyes scathing and judgmental. "It has to be me because I'm the only one who has ever driven anything. They don't even know what a stick shift is, and neither do either of you. Do you?"

"It's a car," Jesse said.

"It's a transmission type for a car, actually. And this is no car. I will be surprised if even I can drive it, much less either of you," Sherry was really angry now, and Alistair winced at her tone.

"You coming with me, or are you going to go cozy up to Jesse?" she asked him, her eyes snapping with suppressed rage.

"I'm coming with you." He didn't really want to, though.

"Jesse, get a team mounted up. I'll probably be injured worse than I am now, and Alistair won't fare a lot better. Since he's a Warden, they'll focus on killing him. Me, they want alive—"

"How do you know that for sure?" Jesse interrupted.

She glared at him and ignored his statement. "—so they will probably just ignore me until they can kill Alistair. I can't wait for you, so you'll have to catch up. If I can build up speed, it'll do more damage so he can kill that tainted elephant."

She walked over to a giant machine that looked to Alistair like a squatting metal monster, glaring at him and waiting for centuries to devour him.

"Well?" He jumped, and went over to climb up the side of it and into it. He shivered at the feeling as he entered the cool interior that smelled of dust and age… and something he couldn't define.

The door slammed beside him with a thick bang. He sat on what was obviously a chair and wondered just exactly what horror she was about to unleash on him this time. He saw Jesse stomp out of the storeroom and envied the other man.

The other door closed and Sherry was sitting in the chair beside him. "Put on your seat belt, like this," she told him. She showed him and after a lot of fumbling around with the lap belt and its clasp, he was finally ready.

She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"Are you scared?" he asked her.

She gave him a perfectly cheerful, cheeky smirk. "Shitless, my friend."

Then a violent roar split the air and the monstrous metal beast shuddered to life. Alistair ducked and reached for his sword, petrified at the explosive sound around him.

"We're in business, baby!" Sherry shouted at him over the din.

The longer he knew her, the more the word 'technology' terrified him.


	28. The World Trembles

**28. The World Trembles**

There was a terrific scream of metal, and Sherry glanced at him. "Oops!" she shouted, "I'm grinding the gears."

The metal monster groaned and shuddered, then rolled forward slightly. Alistair grabbed the nearest thing he could find, which wasn't much. The molten beast snarled and roared and they picked up speed to the sound of more metallic screams.

"Wow, I'm really bad at this!" Sherry was laughing madly as she said it.

Alistair considered questioning her sanity…

They roared out of the doorway to find chaos in the courtyard. Horses snorted and plunged in terror from the madding roar of the bestial machine. Sherry roared towards the gates as they slowly cranked open. Then they were out of the compound and moving towards the lumbering beast at the other end of the field.

Almost as one, the Darkspawn stopped their trek across the huge clearing around the compound. It nestled against a sheer cliff, so the back of it was impregnable against human attack, though in some ways more vulnerable to an underground Darkspawn attack.

All of the sides not sheltered by that cliff were swarming with Darkspawn. Alistair shuddered.

"I think it's about three football fields to that elephant," Sherry yelled at him.

He shrugged at her. What she was saying made no sense to him.

"I'm going to get up as much speed as I can. The harder we hit it, the easier this will be. You got a Healing Potion on you?" At his nod, she turned to face the oncoming horde. "Then we're off!"

They began to pick up speed to the sounds of screaming, protesting metal, and Alistair held on for dear life. He found that the faster they went, the harder it was to hold on. For an instant, the beast was airborne, and Alistair felt his body leave the seat, straining against the straps that held him.

He almost screamed, but remembered just in time that he wasn't a little girl. He was a man, and he wasn't scared—much. Not that his mind was fooled as it gibbered with abject horror as they were once more launched into the air and the whole hideous contraption screamed and shrieked with demonic pain.

She shifted again and metal screamed to the heavens for succor from her brutal torture. They picked up more speed and Alistair felt like he was being ripped apart. He was tossed back and forth, the monster lurching and slamming on the uneven ground.

If he never saw another 'Semi' in his life, it would still be one too many times. And no one would ever get him inside another one, for any reason, at any time. It was a vow as serious to him as his Joining had been.

If there was a 'hell' such as the one he heard the Earther religions had believed in, surely it was a Semi rushing across a battlefield towards a Darkspawn horde. And for whatever reason, the person he loved had felt an overwhelming urge to put him into that hell.

His stomach rebelled as once more time was suspended for a moment, the huge machine lurching and taking to the air on the hill near the edge of the trees. Alistair's body flew, then snapped against the belt that held him. His head jerked and it was everything he could do to hold onto the handles of the seat. His arms burned with the agony of holding on.

They landed so hard that Alistair thought he'd died. Every bone in his body rattled, and pain ripped through his shoulders as he was hammered back down into his seat. "Aaaaah!" That one had hurt—bad.

"Hold on, we're almost there!" she screamed.

Maker have mercy on him, he was certain he wouldn't make it. He was going to be torn apart by this monster long before he even got close to the elephant. Then he was distracted for a moment as he saw the horses in the mirror. They were far behind, a wedge of flesh rushing behind them. Alistair shuddered to think how fast he and Sherry were going to leave them so far behind. One of them was pushing ahead of the others, though. Its rider was whipping it furiously, bent forward across its neck and rushing blindly across the grass at full speed.

For the first time since he'd seen the other man, Alistair thought Jesse was doing the right thing. He didn't like seeing the horse being whipped, yet he felt in his heart that he was about to lose Sherry for good. She'd warned them that she'd probably be injured even worse in the coming conflict—he didn't know how it would happen, only that he believed her that it would—and she had nearly died several times already.

But he forgot about all of that as the elephant filled the front view of the metal horror he was encased in. "Unbuckle and jump, Alistair! When I hit him, you've only got seconds to kill him!"

"What? No!" He couldn't leave her. Somewhere deep in his heart, he knew he couldn't leave her.

She unbuckled his belt and pushed him. He fell against the door. "GET. OUT. NOW!" she screamed at him at the top of her lungs.

He fumbled for the door and jumped out when it opened. He landed and rolled, bellowing as his shoulder snapped out of place and an ankle snapped. He lay panting, and swallowed the healing potion, infinitely glad it hadn't broken in his antics. He was scraped and every inch of his body clamored with pain.

He rolled over even before the Healing was completed. Impossibly, the metal monstrosity picked up speed over the last few yards, as the elephant also began to charge. It lumbered toward the Semi, easily outpacing the Darkspawn around it.

The ground shook beneath him, and the whine of the Semi increased to a scream as Sherry pushed it, no longer bothering to try to shift it. It continued to pick up speed until it slammed into the elephant with the full force of technology and over a thousand foot-pounds [138 kg force/ meter] of sheer torque.

The Semi hit the elephant and was launched into the air. United in flight, the elephant was lifted first to its back legs and then entirely off the land, looking almost as if it were hugging the front of the Semi for one uncanny, suspended moment.

The shocking sound of the collision was enough to leave Alistair gaping in pain as his ears were assaulted by a boom louder than anything he'd ever heard before. He lay on the ground with his ears covered as the elephant let out a horrifying sound, both uncanny and frighteningly heart wrenching.

The Semi landed on the elephant with another cataclysmic 'boom' and then they both rolled over, the Semi careening into the air and the elephant lobbed in the other direction. The Semi rolled another time, the elephant flopped.

Dragged back to reality as the Earth quit shuddering beneath him, Alistair leaped up, taking Sherry's Katana out of the right side holster and rushing to the elephant. As she had instructed him, he buried it in the beast's brain even as it grabbed him by the leg with its nose.

In the instant it took for death to register on it, the elephant threw him against the Semi. Alistair grunted in pain.

Then everything happened at once. Jesse was there, dismounting before the horse had even stopped. Alistair looked down to find something jagged poking out of his abdomen. The world wavered and trembled in his vision and he had time only to say, "Get her sword," before the darkness took over.


	29. Strategic Withdrawal

**29. Strategic Withdrawal**

"Where's Alistair?" Callbrith demanded, jerking Jesse around to face him, ignoring the onrushing Darkspawn.

"He's dead!" Jesse yelled, his face contorted with rage.

"Dead where?" Callbrith snarled. When Jesse went to turn back to securing Sherry into the wagon, Callbrith slammed his fist against the side of it. "'Dead WHERE?' I said, and you will tell me now!"

"Over there, at the Semi," Jesse barked. "But if we don't get out of here now, we'll all be joining him!"

"Fuck you," Callbrith told him. "Run, you son of a whore. I'm getting Alistair."

Callbrith stomped over and found Alistair slumped against the Semi. His body leaned forward, his hands draped on the ground. A broken piece of metal protruded from his abdomen, and Callbrith groaned. Getting him off of that was going to be hard, but he couldn't leave his fellow Warden—his friend—like this to be eaten by the Darkspawn.

"We don't have time for this, they're getting closer," Wynne told him. He looked up to find Wynne and Zevran shifting nervously, looking at the rapidly encroaching line of Darkspawn.

"Help me get him on my horse," Callbrith demanded. He was happy to be speaking in Ferelden again, even if only among those from his own world. Only Sherry had bothered to learn it, so they most spoke English.

The familiar language comforted him in his sense of loss. But there was no time for being maudlin. He grabbed Alistair and dragged him off of the pipe. They shoved him onto the horse with a great deal of difficulty.

Callbrith accepted Zevran's help getting on his horse, and they all mounted, racing toward the wagon that held Sherry's prone form. Everything was falling apart. Nothing was going the way they wanted it to.

As they caught up to the rumbling wagon, its team panting and sweating as they were driven towards the gates, they heard Sherry groaning and crying out in pain. "Stop!" Wynne cried.

It took some doing but they stopped the wagon, the order to stop flowing through the group at various speeds so that they ended up spread out while Wynne stopped to dismount and murmur through a Heal and then a spell of paralysis. With Sherry immobilized and slightly healed, they all turned back toward the walls, the Darkspawn gaining on them rapidly as the wagon horses fought to pick their speed back up.

But all of the horses were tired. Trying to keep up with the Semi had been futile, yet they'd all pushed their horses hard. But Jesse's had taken the worst of it, being whipped into a froth to try to get there to ensure he could save Sherry's life.

Its breathing became ragged and it began to stumble. He slowed it, until the wagon caught up, then he leaped into the seat beside the driver. Callbrith hated the man, and when he looked back to see the horse slow and stop, sides heaving, he hated him more. The animal's terrified screams when the Darkspawn caught up with it made him look back. They had gutted it, and the poor creature screamed again as it tripped on its own entrails. A man ahead of him turned and pointed a gun. Callbrith dodged and winced at the biting roar of the weapon. But when he looked back, the horse had fallen, never to scream with inhuman pain again.

Callbrith caught the man's eye, nodding before he turned back forward. The inherent mercenary cruelty of leaving the noble beast to the tender mercies of the monsters behind them had bothered the other man as well. Callbrith marked him well, aware that he might be an ally someday down the line.

"You're wasting ammo, Anthony!" Jesse rebuked the man.

"You're wasting horses," Anthony yelled in reply.

Jesse glared but said nothing more.

As they approached the gates, they realized that the stop to immobilize Sherry had stolen precious moments to the point that the Darkspawn were mere yards behind them. Their plans would be severely disrupted, especially since more horses were lagging behind, ever closer to the enemy lines.

When they passed the line of oil, the horses jumping over the trough created to hold it, the machine guns thundered to life, their staccato bark mowing Darkspawn in back and forth sweeps. Dirt flew up from the ground where they missed, and those escorting Sherry felt the madness of a too-close encounter with the horrid, writhing mass behind them.

Sherry and Alistair's sacrifice had stolen the secondary advantage of the Darkspawn, the tainted elephant. But their primary advantage remained—they had numbers so massive that in a war of attrition, they couldn't possibly lose.

Callbrith's was the last horse to leap the pools of oil, lagging behind thanks to carrying double. Although short, Callbrith was muscular and powerful, and the added weight of a man in plate did no favors to the poor beast. Its back hoof failed to clear and it floundered for a moment, before surging up and out of the oil.

Then the bullets singing past their heads struck the barrels and the rolling 'kaboom!' of the explosion rocked over them. The poor gelding, burdened as he was, put on a terrified sprint that bolted him past the wagon and into the courtyard barely behind the front line.

Callbrith struggled to control the poor thing, finally stopping him entirely and handing the reins over to one of the adolescent children assigned to care for the horses during the upcoming siege. She frowned at him and shook her head as Alistair was pulled off. Callbrith felt a bit put-up. That one hadn't really been his fault!


	30. Shakeup

**30. Shakeup**

"What happened?" the physician waddled up, and Callbrith felt rising irritation. "He's dead," he told the other man.

"I really doubt that," the physician responded, rudely pushing him out of the way. "There's blood oozing from that wound on his head."

"Yeah, he was upside down on my horse. It's gravity. That belly wound isn't bleeding."

"That's because it's cauterized," the physician told him. "He must have landed on something hot. If he hadn't, he would be dead for sure." The man knelt beside Alistair and pressed fingers against his neck. "He's got a pulse. Get him into Sherry's house. And her, too."

Callbrith moved in front of him. "He doesn't want you helping him."

"Well, he's dead, so what difference does it make?"

Callbrith snorted. "Fine, but none of that drug, whatever it is."

"Fine," the physician snapped.

They moved Sherry and Alistair into the house with the sound of Jesse barking orders in the background. Wynne went with them and when they were inside, she told the physician, "We have an injury kit. Just came in with one of the newbies today."

"Pah, magic. Nonsense."

"Wha—Where am I?" Alistair stirred, trying to sit up and screaming in pain.

"You're in Sherry's house. You were badly injured. You may still die," Callbrith told him, kneeling beside him.

"He's not going to die. I'm going to use this injury kit on him," Wynne told Callbrith.

"No!" Alistair cried, his voice weak but certain. "Use it on Sherry!"

"She'll never forgive me if I don't save you, Alistair. You're a Warden, and she recognizes that you're more important than she is. If you die, the chances of killing the Archdemon go down from three to two."

"I'll never forgive you if you do," he growled painfully at her, his voice wheezing.

"I can live with that," she told him.

"But not with her hating you?"

"I could live with that, too. But she's right, and you're wrong. In her case, not only would I have to live with her hating me, but I'd have to live with knowing she was right, too."

She pulled the kit open and bent over him.

"I'll hate you forever," Alistair warned her.

"I know, dear. I know." She patted his arm and went back to working with the magic of the kit, augmenting it with her own power.

He sat up painfully, still in great pain. "You should have used it on her," he told Wynne. "I think I'm still dying."

"No. That was your only life-threatening wound. The rest will heal with time and rest."

"I don't have time, especially not for rest. There's a war on outside, you know." He groaned as he got up.

Callbrith, content that Alistair would survive—for now—went back outside.

"Why you son of a whore and a bronto!" he yelled. That brought the others out of the house.

They all stared as Jesse stood chatting with the leader of Loghain's forces as if he knew the man. The other group was fully armed and armored again.

"You double-crossing bastard!" Alistair's voice ricocheted across the courtyard.

"Ah, it would seem that the news of your demise was sadly exaggerated," Jesse said, strolling over to the group. "Pity."

"Have you no care at all that only Wardens can kill the Archdemon, and there are only four of you?"

Jesse spread his hands nonchalantly. "Three now, actually. Riordan died while we were out. I'm afraid it's just me, Alistair, and the short, bitchy one." He grinned at Callbrith, his hands waving from the pockets of his hardened leather breeches.

"I suspect when Loghain arrives, it'll just be the two of us. If we survive, of course. Which his men are quite happy to help us do, and I for one prefer to survive, so I'm going to let them help."

"You're a traitor. They'll kill all of us as soon as the Darkspawn are gone!" Wynne sounded angry, and Callbrith looked at her in surprise. He'd never really heard her sound that way.

"What, have you no faith that we can hold our own against them?" He turned to Callbrith, "Shouldn't you hurry down to the dwarf shanty town and make sure that the Darkspawn don't tunnel up from beneath?"

Callbrith glared at him.

"I've taken the liberty of having the women and children taken up to the Tower," he said cheerfully. "I'm certain they're being well taken care of."

He walked away whistling, and Callbrith shouted, "Who did you send to guard them?"

Jesse called back over his shoulder, "Hooper was kind enough to loan us some men. Very sporting of him, don't you think, considering?"

Callbrith looked at Wynne. "Why would he do this? Why would he just sell us all out, just like that?"

"Money? Power? It's hard to say." Wynne sighed. "But if we want to have any chance of surviving all of this, we have to fight the Darkspawn first. They are the worst of two very ugly evils."


	31. Surprising Treasures

**31. Surprising Treasures**

Raging, Alistair turned and went back inside the house. It wouldn't be much of a sanctuary from then on. Jesse had been invited in, and in every way, the entire compound was sullied.

The physician was kneeling beside Sherry and literally sewing her wounds together. Alistair stopped and stared, until weakness made him sit in the plush chair nearby.

"How bad is it?" he asked.

"I've never seen someone hurt this badly and still alive. She's got a concussion, multiple broken bones, fractures, internal bleeding—which I think has stopped at least, and a great number of other contusions and injuries."

"Don't give her morphine!" Alistair growled. Distress at the overall situation made him testy and irritable.

The physician glared at him. "I'll have you know, I thought she was dying. Any other human being on this planet, from this one or from yours, would have died of that wound within hours. You let your friend suffer horrific agony right up until he died. Personally, I think that's monstrous. So you're not the only one here with opinions! I wasn't trying to kill her, I was trying to make things easier for her. I hated seeing her in horrible agony and dying."

He turned back to her and went back to sewing her body, a sight that made Alistair's stomach flip over. Then he said, "Funny how now all of a sudden, when I'm the only one with the knowledge to help, you're not calling me names and kicking me anymore."

"I didn't kick you, Callbrith did."

The old man snorted. "Just because you don't understand what I'm doing, doesn't make it wrong. Do you have any idea who supported me the most in learning all of this?"

Uninterested, Alistair said, "Your parents?"

"No. How can you claim to love her, when you don't even know her?" He tied off another stitch and then continued, "She found me one day, crying on top of the Tower. It wasn't finished in those days, so it was a dangerous place to be. Anyway, she asked me what was wrong, and I told her that I wanted to heal people. I'd seen two soldiers die and it made me realize there was no one there to help them. I wanted to help them.

"She told me, 'Albert, if you're serious, then you're going to have to learn how to help. It'll take a lot of years, and you'll have to be diligent'. She took me to the library, to the medical section. I didn't even know it existed before that. Then later on, she helped me get dead animals to learn on, and helped me understand some of the books when they were too hard for me. She cautioned me, and she encouraged me.

"Then one day, I had my first patient. I was young and it was just a leg wound that had festered. But it was too far gone to help him. He died because I made a mistake. I gave up then, and I went back up on top of the tower. I was going to jump off. But she came and she asked me how I could kill myself over not knowing something I didn't know. When I said I should have known, she asked me why and how. She helped me realize that no one can know everything, we all just do our best.

"She also helped me to realize that I had another gift, too. Even though I couldn't save everyone, I always made people feel better emotionally. She told me that I was like someone she once used to know, Gomer Pyle. 'You can't watch Gomer Pyle and not feel better afterwards. He was goofy and he made mistakes—we all do—but you couldn't leave and feel worse." He looked up at Alistair. "That's why she calls me Gomer Pyle. Not to make fun of me; but to remind me that making people feel better isn't always about healing their bodies. Sometimes it's about healing their internal wounds, with laughter or by giving them hope."

He cut away some of her tunic and prepared to sew another gaping wound before continuing as he worked. "My wife died five years ago, on her birthday. Sherry came over to my house that evening and sat with me late into the night. She tried to hide it, but I saw her crying with me several times. Sherry doesn't eat with us in the cafeteria, because she can't eat wheat. When she does, she gets sick for days afterward. But every year, on my wife's birthday, she bakes my wife's favorite cake and brings it over. She ignores all of my objections and she eats it with me. She's sick for days after that, but she never fails to do it." He stopped and wiped a tear from his eye.

"When I was young," he went on, "one of the girls in the compound was raped. She went to Sherry, and Sherry told her that she'd take care of it. The next day, the fellow that raped her was gone. I found out a couple of years later that Sherry branded him on the face with the lazy S that we brand the horses with, and informed the surrounding cities that anyone wearing that brand on his cheek is a criminal. And if he wears it on both cheeks, he's a rapist. She exiled him, but not before she warned others of exactly what kind of man he was."

Albert sat back for a moment and looked at Alistair. "I wasn't trying to kill her. I was trying to ease her suffering, because I love her. We all do. You're not the only one, and you should stop acting like it. She puts on this pretense of being so tough, and fair minded and strong. But she's always there for you when you need her. She pretends she's calling me Gomer Pyle to be mean, because she doesn't want to expose my vulnerability and need to be reminded sometimes of why I chose this calling.

"She doesn't do these dangerous things herself out of arrogance or out of any real belief that she's the only capable person in the world. She does them because she's the only person she's willing to risk. And she picked you to go with her because she believed that you could do what she asked, and do it right the first time."

Alistair stared at him, surprised at such a source of information. It was the last person he would have expected to speak to him about Sherry's inner workings. "I asked her if she was scared, and she said yes, but she wasn't serious."

"Did she laugh?"

"Yeah. Thought it was hilarious, actually," Alistair said. It still irritated him.

"She always laughs when she's scared. The more scared she is, the more she laughs. Defense mechanism, I wager. She also giggles uncontrollably when she's nervous," Albert told him.

"Sherry gets nervous?"

Albert laughed. "Yeah, Gomer Pyle, she gets nervous. And scared. But she hides it like nobody else. Which makes sense, of course. She's had longer to get it under control."

"Is she really two hundred years old?" Alistair leaned forward, ignoring the pain that twisted and curled through him.

"Maybe more. Could be closer to two hundred and fifty than one hundred and fifty. Hard to say, really. But she's been around since well before I was born. My father said he remembered her from his youth, and he was in the war." Albert dabbed at Sherry's side with a bright orange liquid, then commenced sewing.

They sat in silence for a while as the war raged outside. Finally, Alistair said, "I should be out there."

"No, you shouldn't." Albert's voice was sharp, "You'll just get yourself killed, and a bunch of other people killed, too, while they try to protect you from your own arrogance." He gave Alistair a strange look. "You're just like her in a lot of ways. You also believe the world will fall apart if you're not there trying to save it. Have some faith in other people."

"How?" He heard bitterness in his voice and didn't bother to fight it. "Jesse betrayed us, and Callbrith's alone now. I…" He tried not to give in to the misery overwhelming him.

"Betrayer or not, Jesse's no fool. He's not going to let this compound get taken. Just like Sherry helped me learn medicine, she helped him learn tactics. He's brilliant. Maybe one of the best strategists we have besides Sherry. Experience does pay off, and he's inexperienced where she has been through a full-fledged war already. While I have never liked him, and never will, one thing is true of Jesse Morgan: he's the top military strategist in the region outside of Sherry." He stood up and sighed.

"She'll have to do the rest herself, I'm afraid," he said. "Unless your mages have something that'll help."

"I'm sorry about the way Callbrith and I treated you," Alistair told him. "I didn't realize—"

"No," he interrupted. "You didn't. And you didn't realize that Jesse was in love with Sherry to the extent that he would be willing to sacrifice everything she most holds dear in order to have her. But that's the way life is. We can't know what we don't know. Expecting ourselves to retroactively know is futile and silly. If you dwell on it, you'll kill yourself with stress."

He then turned towards Alistair and picked up a long needle, sans thread. "Your turn."

Alistair eyed it. "What's that for?"

"It will numb you so you don't feel me sewing."

Alistair shook his head. "Oh no. Uh uh. I'm not—"

"Don't be a baby," Albert scoffed.

"Just when I was starting to like you, too, Gomer Pyle…" Alistair groaned and closed his eyes as the other man chuckled. Gritting his teeth, he said, "Get it over with."

For the next hour, Alistair concentrated on the fact that other people were fighting and dying all around him. But he just couldn't help being a baby about that needle—he'd rather be fighting and dying than getting poked and sewn like a child's doll.


	32. Unsecrets

**32. Unsecrets**

"Alistair?" Sherry searched for him. She'd as good as pushed him out of the Semi, and didn't know if he'd even survived.

"Sherry," he answered, his voice groggy and exhausted.

"You're alive," she said, the last word ending on a gasping sob. "Oh God, I hurt!"

"Albert was here. He sewed us both up." Movement sounded and she saw his precious face in the dim light from the window. It was night, but she could tell little else. Machine gun fire sounded from outside on the walls.

"Dear Albert. He's such a pain in the ass. I shoulda never let him study those bloody books." She sighed.

"I agree. He poked me with a needle and sewed me up like a child's doll." He sounded genuinely irritated, and Sherry blinked at him in surprise. Then he sighed. "I gave him a hard time about the morphine. Now I think maybe I wasn't entirely fair with him. He really thought you were dying."

"I need a shake. Is there anyone else here?"

"No. They're all fighting."

They were all fighting, but he was here. Either he was just staying with her, or he had been badly injured as well. If Albert was sewing him up, then it had to be the second. And she gave him too much credit to be sitting around in here while there was a war on outside in any other case, too. "How bad was it? Did you kill it?"

He hesitated and her heart clenched like a fist, flopping and rolling before beating fast and hard. She should never have brought him. It should have been someone else. Perhaps Jesse—

"I killed it, but I was injured in the process. A few more people arrived from Thedas. One of them had a single injury kit, so Wynne used it on me. I tried to make her use it on you, but she wouldn't."

"I like Wynne more every day," Sherry told him. Then she tried to sit up, crying out involuntarily as pain wracked through her and her muscles refused to respond to her call.

"Don't!" he sounded panicked. "You are very, very badly injured. You've got internal injuries."

"I need a shake."

"I'll make it."

"No! You're injured as well, you need to rest!"

"I'm not nearly as injured as you are, Sherry. I can make a shake. What is that red powder, anyway? Would it help me, too?"

Her stomach did horrifying acrobatics. She had dreaded this more than any other question. When he found out, would he hate her as others had done? Could she avoid a direct answer?

"It's Philosopher's Stone. It has helped you already," she told him. "It healed your burns entirely."

Then she warned him, "You have to take it in something else. It can have painful effects if you don't."

He was already in the kitchen, rummaging around. "But what's it made of? I've never heard of Philosopher's Stone."

She took a deep breath. It was now or never, she supposed. Just as well find out how much he was going to hate her. "It's made from blood. But it's not raw," she protested immediately, before he could ask her since he knew she ate raw meat.

"Just blood?" he asked.

She blinked. "And gold. They're processed over the space of a year or so, until they achieve the proper properties. It takes over a quart. That doesn't bother you?"

"Nah. Why would it? We use blood in broths all the time."

"Blood is a big taboo on Earth. Even animal blood is drained, not eaten or used."

There was a moment of strained silence from Alistair, then, "Is it human blood?"

"No," she said, disgusted. Then it dawned on her. Perhaps the others thought that as well? No wonder they had reacted with an excess of disgust, even for the fact it was made from blood. "Oh dear. I wouldn't use human blood for it, that's horrible!"

"Sorry," he said. "I guess that should have been obvious, huh."

"No. You're not the first person to think that, I think. It never occurred to me that anyone would think that… I feel like such a complete fool."

"You're many things, Sherry. But never a fool."

She chuckled. "I hope you always believe that, Alistair. It's so much less embarrassing than reality." She winced as the chuckle dragged up pain. "Anyway, now you know my big secret, too. I eat raw meat and I believe that animal blood with gold added to it is responsible for me living so long."

"I guess you don't have anymore gold?"

"We do have some. Why do you ask?"

"Why don't you make more and share it?" He sat her up against pillows and sofa cushions.

"I tried several times. But people always refused and were horrified to the degree that they left or preferred to die. So I quit trying and I have hidden it in shame ever since." Misery welled up in her. All the lives that could have been saved if only she'd realized! "We don't need more gold, either. We can simply add that to blood and in a month it alters into more of the powder."

They sat quietly, both drinking some of the shake he had made. She felt tears slide down her face. If only she hadn't screwed up so terribly!

"Are you crying?" Alistair asked her.

She looked away. "No."

"Yes you are. What's wrong?"

"I didn't realize they thought it was human blood. If they'd known it wasn't, they might have accepted it instead of running away. I can't believe I did something so stupid." She choked on a sob and he laid his forehead against her head.

"Well, Gomer Pyle, it's always easy to look back and know what you should have known, isn't it?"

Half laughing and half still crying, she said, "Did you just call me Gomer Pyle, Albert?"

"Ouch," he said with a grin. "Did you just call me an old guy with a limp and a lisp?"

"Alistair! Albert does not have a lisp!"

"Yespth he doethp."

She chuckled but sobered right away. "Oh, Alistair, what have I done!"

"Your best. Just like the rest of us. You're too hard on yourself." His hand was warm on hers as he sat down painfully beside her and urged her gently to drink.

She finished and Alistair helped her lie down again. The night hours stretched into the morning as she lay looking back on all of the lives she could have saved if she'd only realized that people kept thinking she was using human blood in making the Philosopher's Stone—and no doubt believing she had killed someone, or was killing someone in order to do so.

She wondered how many people thought she was some kind of sick, monstrous vampire or whatever. By her age, she supposed she should have gotten over caring what people thought, but knowing anyone could believe that of her wounded her on a deeper level than she cared to consider.


	33. Loghain's Gain

**33. Loghain's Gain**

The next morning, Sherry woke Alistair to give him a bit more than half of the shake she had made, unsurprised he slept through the ancient blender's noise. The sounds of gunfire and shouting from outside continued unabated. Struggling, she lowered herself to the sofa, and went to sleep leaning back on the pillows piled there.

She had set the alarm on the microwave—the only thing she used it for anymore—for an hour later. Painfully, slowly, she got up when it awakened her, and made them another. For the next few hours, she continued to dose them repeatedly, having made another batch of Philosopher's Stone that had just now come to fruition. There was plenty, as she'd been treating Alistair with it and had made excess, concerned she might run out.

She moved the powder into a new container, which she stored under the cabinet. She loved Alistair, but she also knew that even trusted people could behave strangely at the thought of eternal life.

Then, putting some of the pepper in the old container and adding some bone powder to it to make it look the right color, she closed it up and put it back. She could only hope that she was right about Alistair and that he had the integrity to leave it be. But one never knew.

That afternoon, the fighting finally ended. The sound of machine guns cut off so suddenly and completely that the silence without them roared with deafening clarity. Sherry jerked to wakefulness, though Alistair snored slightly in the overstuffed armchair, whose inner workings as a recliner had given up long ago. It had been reupholstered many times, and she figured it would be time again soon. One couldn't be comfortable and snore like that, she figured.

Already, the Philosopher's Stone was doing its magic. She was already feeling better, though she still felt sore and bruised, as if she'd been in an especially brutal fight. Pain wracked her side on a constant basis, but it was muted now, and she felt clear headed instead of groggy and distracted by the pain.

She laid still for a few minutes, then heard voices at the door. She frowned; something wasn't right. They should have knocked, but someone tried the door, instead. Finding it unlocked, they came in, moving quietly. Sherry hid the katana under the sofa cushions and closed her eyes as if in sleep.

She was 'awakened' by Alistair's startled yelp as he was dragged forcibly from his chair. She opened her eyes, trying to appear as weak as she had been the day before, and demanded, "Jesse, what are you doing?" What, she wondered, WAS he doing?

"He didn't tell you? I released Loghain's men. They'll be taking Alistair back with them to stand trial for being a traitor. Did you know he was the traitor all along?" Jesse crossed his arms. "Loghain explained it all while he was here. I didn't believe him at the time, but after seeing how he's cozying up to you and trying to take over here, I realized that Loghain was being honest the whole time. Your Alistair is the traitor. He pretends to be an idiot—"

"Hey!" Alistair objected.

"—but that's just a ploy to make you think he's too stupid to betray you," Jesse finished. "They're leaving now, and he'll go with them back to Loghain. Don't worry about anything. I'll send Gomer Pyle in to take care of you, get you anything you need and all of that. You'll be fine soon. I've got everything under control."

"Why would you do this, Jesse? You know this isn't right."

He shrugged. "Immaterial, my dear. Since he's been here, you've been nearly dead almost the whole time—"

"Surely you don't blame him for the Darkspawn, Jesse. That's insane!"

"Hardly. I'm not stupid, Sherry. However, he has failed to take care of you properly, which is as much of a crime as doing it himself. I gave him a fair chance to make good on your attraction to him and to prove himself worthy of you. He has failed, and you simply can't see it."

"I don't need a man to take care of me—"

He interrupted her, "Sherry, I know you try to act strong and independent. And you truly are remarkable with that sword of yours. But you're much more fragile than you let on. You do need to be taken care of, and as I stated, he has failed." He turned to one of the men with him, "Speaking of her katana, it should be on the stand beside the bed."

"Don't bother," Sherry told him. "It's not there. It's still in the elephant's skull."

He looked her up and down. "Pity. I rather liked it." He swept his hand at the other man, "Go clean out her gun closet. Swords, too."

Sherry objected, but another man stepped behind her and laid a cold, plate covered hand on her shoulder. She was a prisoner, and there was no pretense on anyone's behalf. She would accept his terms, or she would become even more of a prisoner than she already was.

The man returned with her guns and the two swords from the gun cabinet in her room. She glared at Jesse, anger and rage filling her.

"You'll see, Sherry. This is all for the best. You may not see it right now, because you're too soft-hearted to recognize that sometimes expedient measures aren't pretty. But with time, you'll realize that I have only your best interests at heart." Jesse nodded toward the door and the pair holding Alistair filed out.

"Eduardo, get the blue jar with the red powder in it from the top cabinet."

Sherry raised an eyebrow. "Why would you want that, Jesse?"

He shrugged. "If you wanted it in your drink, it must be the source of your long life. Don't worry, you can have some of it, too."

"It's just pepper with bone powder in it, Jesse. It helps to regrow tissue by giving you calcium. That's all."

"I think you protest too much, Sherry. If it was only bone powder with pepper, you'd let me take it without arguing."

"I need it to help me heal," she argued. "The calcium will help rebuild my bones—"

"I told you that you can have some of it, Sherry, and I meant it. Albert can come get some each day for you. After all, if you died, all of this would be for nothing." He gestured and then turned to follow the soldiers as they left.

Looking back, he said, "You'll understand someday, Sherry. You're intelligent, you'll get it. You're just blinded by a foolish infatuation right now. He's a traitor, and I intend to see that he gets his due for it."

"I only see one traitor here, Jesse, and it's not him."

"You'll change your mind, my dear. Trust me." Then he left, closing the door behind him, the command to 'stay here and don't let anyone in or out except Albert' floating through the door to her.

She was trapped in her own house.


	34. Escort

**34. Escort**

Alistair was surprised to find himself feeling far, far healthier than he had any business feeling. He knew that it was Sherry's red powder, but he wasn't sure what he was going to do with it. On the one hand, he knew they thought he was far weaker than he was, so he was going to use that advantage, and keep it by feigning continued weakness and pain as long as he could.

But he still was nowhere near strong enough to overcome this many men. There was a huge number of them; it was an army, after all. So he kept silent and wondered what advantage, if any, it actually gave him in practical terms.

They left the gates of the compound the next morning after a cold night on the ground. Alistair felt remarkably better, though, despite the long night in shackles. As they left, he rode silently on the gelding Callbrith had ridden just a couple days before. The poor beast was in bad shape still, stiff and obviously sore and tired.

But the group was in no hurry and there were foot soldiers, so they walked placidly at the rate of speed the foot soldiers found most efficient. Which was faster now than it might otherwise have been, because they were passing through the site of what could only be called a massacre.

It was gloomy, the air filled with the malodorous scent of burning flesh. The smell of corpses in advanced decay that always clung to Darkspawn rose from the ground, as if the very land were dying. Which, as Alistair well knew, it was. That was the taint of the Darkspawn.

Crows hopped from corpse to corpse, eagerly eating eyes or pecking at any exposed flesh they could find. The sky was gray with smoke, and ash fell constantly, coating everyone in grime and stench. Somewhere, a lone songbird called, but was cut short by an unknown agency in mid-song.

Aside from the cawing of the crows, the clop of horse hooves, and the steady clank of harness or armor, an unnatural quiet fell. Alistair rode feeling that quiet into the depth of his bones. It murmured of the horrible things to come, that silence.

Cold tendrils of fear rose in his heart like the spires of ashen smoke rising from the battlefield into the air. The worst part of it all was that he couldn't argue with some parts of what Jesse had said. He'd failed to protect Sherry. He'd let her do the most insane things, without even a whisper of disagreement.

Misery rode behind him on the putrid, acrid smoke and the wings of ravenous, gluttonous crows.

Hours passed before they reached beyond the smoke and misery of the scene of the largest battle Alistair had ever missed. It had dwarfed the fight in Ostagar that Alistair had also missed, and getting beyond the scope of its devastation had been one of the longest rides of his life. Not in length, but in emotional torture.

For he had left Sherry in the clutches of a traitor, to be delivered into the clutches of another one. And he'd never told her how he really felt. He'd said he cared, but he'd never said the words. Those words. The ones that meant the most.

He should have told her.

Instead, he rode in silence towards whatever fate awaited him, and hoped that the katana wasn't really languishing in the field in the skull of the elephant. He felt a great sorrow over that, as if in leaving it behind, he had set the stage for all that came after.

He should have held onto it when he was thrown.

He felt the red powder continue to work on him, surprisingly feeling better over time as they rode. When lunchtime came and they didn't feed him, he barely even noticed. He felt fine, and he regretted that as well. He let her make the shakes all morning the day before.

He should have made them himself, rather than sleeping like a lump.

The day wore on until evening fell. The army didn't stop, continuing on towards Portsmouth and Loghain. A final confrontation for Alistair, in which he would be helpless and unable to defend himself, nor the honor of his brothers, the Gray Wardens.

He should have died beside Duncan and the others, and none of this would have happened.

Darkness came over the land and still they marched. His doom came ever closer, yet his mind was torn in two—both sides preoccupied with places far, far away from where he was going. One half was on a battlefield in Ostagar, the other was in a small house with a small woman whose heart and wisdom were bigger than the distance between the two places.

He should be with her as he should have been with Duncan and his half brother as their lives drained out onto the battlefield in Ostagar.

But he wasn't. He was here, riding into Loghain's clutches without even struggling. He had no plan, no hope, and no emotional energy to find either one with. He rode onward, his heart heavy and his thoughts morose. What good was he to anyone, anyway? Sure he could kill an Archdemon, but any Gray Warden could do that. But not just any old Gray Warden could manage to stand by while everyone he loved died, and get himself taken captive by a traitor while he slept. That, he thought to himself, took a special talent that only Alistair himself possessed.

Maybe Jesse was right. Maybe he could care for Sherry far better than Alistair could. Perhaps this was all the way it was meant to be.

Hours later, he found himself riding into the walls of a compound less imposing over-all than Sherry's Walk, yet more imposing in a few ways. It was clear even to his untrained eyes that this was a prison. Unlike Sherry's Walk, which had only protection as a purpose, this was a building intended to keep people in, and never let them out.

His fate was sealed, and Alistair knew it in every part of his being. Soon enough, he would join his fellow Gray Wardens.

"King Loghain isn't here, but don't worry, he's due back tomorrow. He'll be very pleased to see you, I'm sure," the arrogant, officious looking man at the gate said to Alistair. "You've been a real thorn in his side."

Alistair's personality stirred to life long enough to want to hit the man, but then settled down again immediately into complacent uncaring. He shrugged. He couldn't even feel good about ruining Loghain's day by being 'a thorn in his side'.


	35. A Dish Best Served Cold

_My great thanks again to those reviewing and favoriting. It really makes my day to see review notices pop up in my email! _

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><p><strong>Very adult themes and very strong language warning for the next couple of chapters!<strong>

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><p><strong>35. A Dish Best Served Cold<strong>

A person living on Philosopher's Stone could be killed, but it was a lot harder than other people. Sherry herself was proof of this, and she couldn't afford to let it fall into Jesse's hands. If he didn't use it himself, he would no doubt sell it or give it over to Loghain. For the first time, she began to wonder if she hadn't been more right than she realized to 'hoard' it for all of those years. How many 'Jesses' or 'Loghains' could the world survive at one time? They would tear each other apart—and the world with them. Like the war, when so many died. So very, very many.

So she knelt and pushed back stalks of rhubarb and buried the jar of Philosopher's Stone in the freshly turned soil there. Rhubarb was a plant that continued to grow back year after year—there would be little to no reason for anyone to be digging it up. She hoped.

Finished, she stood back up. Over the last day and a half, she had taken large amounts of it. Much more than she had ever taken before at one time. The healing itself was rapid, but it was also painful, and caused her to eat voraciously. Her appetite had more than tripled, and she had stripped the tomato 'tree' of all of its fruit, along with several other of her plants. Even the rhubarb had not escaped her ravening hunger.

But she was fully healed and even felt a tingling sort of energy. She knew that time was short. It did not behoove a man to keep his political rival alive for very long. Loghain needed a kangaroo court and an execution as quickly as he could manage them. And since he'd become a self-styled 'King', no doubt he could make that extremely fast.

So she had chased Albert out earlier in the day, haranguing him and harassing him on his way out the door. She felt guilty about it, but she didn't want him implicated in any way. Now it was time for part two of the plan. It was somewhere around three in the morning, she felt certain—the perfect time to escape.

The two guards at the doorway were filth, in her mind. They'd eyed her with decided lust when she'd chased Albert out. A man who thought only with his pants was easily manipulated, and Sherry wasn't about to let that advantage go to waste.

She opened the door, bending over and holding her side. "I need some help. Please, can you help me?" She played up the pretense of pain, sniffling and huffing.

"What do you expect us to do?" one of them snapped at her.

"I just need help getting into the bed," she said. "It's so high, and I'm in so much pain." She put a little self-pity into her voice, cringing when it sounded completely insincere to her own ears.

The one on the left, his gold tooth gleaming in the moonlight, said, "I'll help you get into bed." The grin on his face told her that he had taken her bait.

The other looked surprised for a moment, but then an equally sly grin came over his face. "I'll help, too," he agreed.

They walked past her into the house, and just as she was about to pull the katana from behind her back, gold tooth turned and smirked at her. "You going to squeal? Jeb over here likes the ones that squeal and kick. He's not as cultured as I am."

Oddly enough, 'Jeb' looked very clean cut and respectable. One wouldn't peg him as a rapist—but then they came in many shapes and sizes, like all criminals. One wouldn't peg Jesse as a traitor, either. And she hadn't.

"Why would I squeal and kick?" she pretended ignorance.

"She probably wants it," gold tooth told Jeb, elbowing him in the rib.

Jeb was no longer smiling. "I like them a little younger, like that one in the Tower. But she'll do."

"In the Tower?" Sherry parroted it stupidly, trying hard not to get her mind around what they were saying. They couldn't be openly admitting to her that they'd raped the women they were supposed to be protecting in the Tower, could they?

"Yeah. Made it real easy." Gold tooth grinned like a pirate.

"Just the two of you? That's—"

"Nah, was two others with us."

"Why don't you go get them, too. Jeb likes it rough, right? Having someone to help hold me down would be like cheating, especially since I'm so weak and wounded. Then after we're done, you three can show me a really good time, hmm?" She threw in a flutter of her lashes for good measure. "You have no idea how long it's been since I've had a man…" stomach turning, she tried to look coy as she said it.

"Haha, maybe I'll do that," Gold tooth said.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Jeb said. Suspicion flickered in his eyes.

He was brighter than Gold tooth, Sherry granted him that. But then again, he had a weakness… "What's wrong, you can't handle a little wounded woman all by yourself? You need him to hold your hand? Maybe hold your cock for you, too?"

His eyes narrowed and he stared at her.

"Go get them, quietly and not too quickly. I'm going to teach her who her betters are."

"What, I ain't her betters?" Gold tooth objected.

"Just go," Jeb snapped.

When he was gone, Jeb stood still and asked, "What's your game?"

"Do I have to have a game? Maybe I just like men. A lot."

"I don't think so. I think you figure you can take me if you get rid of him. But you can't."

"Oh, Jeb. I can. I easily can." She stood up straight. "You know, the man who taught me how to use this katana had a saying, 'A poor student learns little of what his Master teaches. A mediocre student learns most of what his Master teaches. A good student learns all that the Master teaches. But an excellent student… now an excellent student will learn everything his Master teaches, and more.'

"I want to thank you and your three friends." She finished, lifting the katana across her body just below her face, taking a battle pose.

"Really, thank us for what?" he asked her.

"My Master taught me how to fight, how to attack, parry, lunge, and defend myself. But he never taught me how to torture a man. Today, I become an excellent student, for today, I will learn how to torture."

He laughed. "I'm not afraid of you."

"Then you are a fool, which comes as no surprise to anyone except you," she told him.

And then she began to learn how to be an excellent student, indeed.

She put to use the things she'd developed while teaching the students over the years who had come to be trained in weapons. She treated the katana as if it were simply a training weapon. She made shallow cuts that started with drops of blood that soon turned into flows of blood. She struck the cuts with the flat of the blade. She leaped and swirled and danced around Jeb, taking few hits herself.

Her agility and dexterity were her true strengths. If she engaged him fully, she would be lost, and she knew it. So she danced a cruel and spiteful dance around this man who liked to harm little girls most of all.

She kicked him in the balls and let him recover. As he tried to stand, she cut his ear off. She left no part of his skin uncut except his face. But she heard his friends coming, and leaned over the overturned sofa to say softly into his other ear—the intact one, "Your friends are coming. Play time's over. Pity."

Yet she felt no pity at all. Only a rising tide of rage. When he opened his mouth to shout at the others to warn them, the katana flickered out and his tongue fell, severed, into his throat as he drew breath. He choked on the floor for a moment before ejecting it, emitting a strange, gurgling keen.

She slit his throat and then stepped over his thrashing body as she moved behind the wall.

"Jeb, we're here! Hope you had enough time to have your fun—" Gold tooth stopped speaking as he rounded the corner into the trashed living room.

"Not nearly enough. But you're here now, so you can make up for it. Are these your rapist pals?" She had dropped the nightgown from over her leather armor, and stood before the three dripping with some of her own blood, and a lot of Jeb's.

"Oh shit!" One of the other men dodged for the doorway, and Sherry threw a potted plant at the back of his head, dropping him to the ground.

"Now, now. You came to rape me. What's the matter, boys, you only like defenseless women and little girls?"

"I didn't touch none of the little girls," the other new one said, running a hand nervously through his black hair. "That ain't right."

"Aww," Sherry said. "How very noble of you…"

He swallowed nervously. "I thought you were wounded—"

"Oh, and in your nobility, you figured that a helpless, wounded woman was fair game?" Sherry layered her voice with all of the hate, rage, and fury she felt. "I don't care if you touched those little girls or not. These three did it in front of you, and their heads are still attached to their bodies. For the moment."

"I'm sorry. I won't never do it again," he said.

"Then you can die quickly," she told him. "Let it never be said that I'm unmerciful to rapists. Oh, wait. I AM unmerciful to rapists. And I intend to prove it."

Over the next hour, despite sustaining several new wounds, Sherry did just that.

When she was finished, she carved the lazy S—an S that looked like it had been stretched sideways—onto their faces with a kitchen knife so that it was very clear and would not be missed. Completing the job of severing their heads, she slipped out the door and surveyed the compound. She had lost precious time already, but she refused to leave this job unfinished.

Sucking down a healing potion, she slipped along the top of the wall, systematically killing the sentries there, until she happened on Zevran.

He submitted to her immediately and joined her in the following efforts. While she drove pikes into the ground, cringing at the sounds it made, he dragged the bodies out of her house.

Leaving, Sherry finished the rest of her business, alerting the dwarves and gathering up Callbrith, waking Wynne and sneaking her out of the women's barracks, and explaining to those few who could be trusted what would be needed from them.

When they left on horses with cloth-covered hooves to muffle the sound, they left behind four rapists' heads on pikes, their tortured bodies lying at the foot of the pikes.

But the rage Sherry felt was not abated even by that night's work. Her heart had turned against Jesse entirely, to the point where the darkness within festered and burned and roared with savage life.

On Thedas, deep beneath the ground, the Archdemon lifted his head and grinned a sleek draconic smile of pure satisfaction as he felt the molten heat of fury rise within the Keeper.


	36. The Human Factor

_Okay,__ I just wanted to state that I think that ff has been eating some of my chapters. I do apologize for the huge time lapse that creates, and the incoming spam as I upload the two or three missing ones again. Also, I was making a cake for my daughter's teachers, so that took up most of a week. So sorry for the wait and inconvenience-I apologize on behalf of and myself... _

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><p><strong>36. The Human Factor<strong>

"How the hell could this have happened?" Jesse snarled.

Hooper shifted. "I don't know. Someone obviously kept the katana. Probably the dwarf."

"Someone? 'Someone' didn't do this. SHE did this." Jesse kicked one of the decapitated corpses.

"She couldn't have done it. She was badly wounded."

Jesse rounded on Hooper. "You listen to me, and you listen well. There's only one person in this world who spends as much as thirty hours a week in combat, and never less than fifteen. Do you know who it is?" At Hooper's uncaring shrug, he said, "Her. She spends hours a day training recruits. HOURS, man. She's one of the best, because she works hard for it. She's fast, she's strong, and she's dangerous. A wounded Sherry is like a wounded wolf. More dangerous than before."

He turned back to the corpses, which had obviously been dragged from the house, and ran a hand through his hair restlessly. He walked around, looking at the bloody corpses.

"They've been tortured," Hooper said. "Brutally. Good work, actually—"

"Yes," Jesse cut him off. "But why? That's what I don't understand. Why would she torture them? I've never seen her torture anyone. Ever."

"They're marked as rapists," Vasser, one of Jesse's most loyal friends said.

"How can you tell?" Jesse asked, looking the bodies over cursorily.

"Not the bodies, the heads," Vasser told him, pointing.

Jesse looked up, and saw the lazy S carved crudely into both cheeks of each of the faces—faces unmarked except for those crude carvings, obviously done after death.

"I'll be damned. Why would they be marked as rapists?" He turned and glared at Hooper. "Did they rape those women in the Tower?" he demanded hotly.

"Sure," Hooper said, spreading his hands. "You told me to send four of my best. Those four deserved spoils if anybody did, they—"

"You idiot. I told you to send four of your best in case the Darkspawn got to the Tower! What kind of fucking moron are you? Who the hell rapes the sisters, the wives, the children of men they have to fight beside?" Jesse couldn't believe his ears.

"They'll never know," Hooper objected. "We all have a pact. If the women tell, as soon as the rapists are arrested, others will kill them or their children—"

"What?" Jesse snapped. "You people are fucking demented. These aren't spoils of war, these are the families of men you have to work and fight with. What kind of stupid pervert shits in his own house? You want to rape women, go find some somewhere else. Do you have any idea how tactically stupid the very idea of raping these women was? Do you have a fucking brain in your head AT ALL?" His voice rose on the last two words and he felt like punching the other man in the nuts.

"Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. FUCK!" He yelled that one, then paced.

"Alright. We can still fix this. Send two guards over to Sherry's house. Clean up any evidence of these bodies being dragged from there. We're going to claim that we found out about this and ordered it. You will tell your men to take no retribution, that you had it done for tactical reasons." He paced again, swearing. "What fucking possessed you to send rapists up there?" He cut Hooper off before he could speak. "Never mind. Fucking jackass. You could have ruined everything!"

Vasser said, "Are you wanting to hide that she has escaped?"

"Yes," Jesse answered. "As long as people think she's in there, wounded, and the guards are protecting her rather than keeping her prisoner, they'll be controllable."

"Perhaps you should put some of our men on the door, then. There's already talk that she's a prisoner by the fact that you were using Hooper's men to begin with."

"Shit!" Jesse groaned. "I didn't even think of that. See, that's why I keep you around," he told Vasser with a short-lived grin.

"I don't really understand why you're so against her," Hooper told him. "She seems decent enough as a leader."

"Why?" Jesse asked him. "You know, everyone around here thinks she's such an angel. That her temper is all just an act to try to keep people thinking she's impartial." He grabbed the other man's head and shoved it towards a corpse until he was bent over. "Because she did THIS, Hooper. Because she is capable of that. Because if she knew your opinion of raping women, she'd do that to you, too." He pushed the other man away, ignoring his furious glare as he fell over.

"We've got to find her. We've got to get her back," Jesse paced again.

"Why? We're better off without her here. If she's gone, she's no danger to us—"

Jesse cut Hooper off. "She's always dangerous. She'll even be dangerous when she's dead. People love her, and that's the most dangerous thing of all."

"You're going to kill her?" Vasser asked, surprise obvious in his voice and the rise of his eyebrows.

"Of course not. She's dangerous, but I love her," Jesse told him. "She needs a strong hand, sure. But killing her won't work in our favor at all."

"I doubt she wants a 'strong hand'," Vasser told him.

"We don't always want what we need, and sometimes don't need what we want," Jesse answered. "Sometimes we don't know what's best for ourselves."

Then, turning to look down at the corpses, he continued, "Alright, so that's the plan. Act like she's still here. Get rid of the evidence, but leave the corpses so that the women feel like we're looking out for them and their husbands and fathers will be grateful." He groaned and ran a hand down his face. "Block the dwarves in, too. They have been raising a lot of hell about governing themselves, so make it look like an accident and get rid of them."

"Sherry wouldn't—" Vasser's objection was cut short.

"Sherry's not in control anymore, I am," Jesse snarled at him, "and everyone had better get that through their heads right fucking now!" He walked away, muttering that there was always some fool who screwed things up.

He missed Vasser's quiet comment, "Yes, you are. Enjoy it while it lasts…" Vasser looked down at the corpses at his feet and shuddered before turning to go wake men and give commands.


	37. Pilgrimage

**37. Pilgrimage**

While Callbrith and the dwarves continued their work below the surface of the compound, Sherry, Wynne, and Zevran left through a long unused passage behind the Tower.

The air was damp with dew, and laden with the cloying scent of carrion. The first watery fingers of pre-dawn light had slid over the horizon beyond the stone of the mountains, seeking for a hold by which to lift the grudging sun to its daylight vigil.

Their horse's hooves made no sound as they rode across the smoke and fog-cloaked battlefield, muffled as they were by cloth. Even the tack had been muffled, so that no jingle could betray their passage into the still morning. Behind them, fog and burned flesh moved in the air with sluggish displeasure, returning to the place from which they had been displaced by the intruders.

The world was calm and silent, not even the birds yet arisen to break the preternatural silence. The small group passed the first of the gnarled, blighted rose bushes that had once marked the line between one field and the next. It had twisted in upon itself, its thorns slicing through leaves as if it were attacking its own parts. The hole it passed through wept with black sap like tears from a dying leviathan. Alone amongst fire-scored earth, it struggled for life against a growing tide of black, putrid soil. Its pathetic misery screamed against the fate that had wrought it, yet inexorably the taint had taken it until only a single withered, dead rose hung from the top of it, blackened on the edges with a red heart.

As they passed, a petal fell from the dying rose to lie bright and forlorn on the black soil.

When they had disappeared into the fog, the petal turned black and fell as ash, like it had never been.

They traveled on into the dark morning, speaking not at all until they had reached the edge of the battle-destroyed grounds. The fog had begun to lift from the open area, yet it left behind the stench of decay and the ever-present horror of ash that had settled on them and that left them unable to escape the smell of burned flesh.

Sherry stopped and looked back. At the edge, nestled against a tree line that rose above it, was the last remaining living field. The golden rye there stood still, ripe for the scythes that should have breached it several days before. She felt a dawning misery that it still remained standing, and there seemed to be no indication that Jesse even cared. Without that single field of rye, the people of the compound would have a lean winter. Already the chill of Autumn had risen, biting ears and noses even without the inevitable winds.

She could only feel gratitude that the bees had already begun hibernation. If Jesse didn't mishandle them, they would survive. She feared for them the most, for they were essential to survival. Without them, there would be little food, for pollination would decrease exponentially. There would also be no more honey, which was one of the staples of the diet of the people of her compound.

The others sat silently as she mourned the state of affairs left by Jesse's betrayal. It would be a lean winter at best. If the harvest were not done, it would be an austere, even a severe one.

But there was a way to offset it. It would take them away from Alistair for a time. They had to go North before they could travel over to save him. She could only hope that she could accomplish all that needed done before Loghain completed his mockery of a 'trial'. Unaware that her work inside had been found, Sherry turned and headed into the woods. The others followed, looking back also at the place they had come to know as 'home'.

Together, the group traveled quickly. Finally, they arrived at what appeared to be a small log cabin in the mountains. There were no roads leading to it, or away from it in any direction.

"Alistair is being held in a cabin?" Zevran asked impertinently, one sarcastic eyebrow rising towards the white hair that managed to remain sleek despite days of travel.

"No," Sherry answered him. "We're here for food and to pick up Peep."

The cabin door opened before she was finished speaking, and a massive man walked out of it. His skin was so dark it was nearly black. His legs were casual towers of latent power, and the crossed arms bulged with the same sense of negligent killing potential.

"Sherry!" he said when he saw her. His deep, resonant voice rolled across the clearing like a plush red carpet.

As Sherry dismounted and flew into his arms, a younger black man emerged from the cabin behind him. He was short, his body oddly twisted. His fingers flicked constantly against each other, and he rocked back and forth.

"Sherry! Sherry comes!" he said, his face lighting up as he gazed at the sky. "Sherry and the dragon, Sherry and the dragon," he chanted softly, his voice squeaking slightly.

"That's Peep?" Zevran asked, his voice filled with surprised incredulity.

"Shhh," Wynne admonished him.

"Well, what good is he going to be? He's… he's…" Zevran failed to find a word in either language that would express his dismay.

"I'm Peep. That's Billy," the massive black man said. "And I know what you meant to say is that he's brilliant."

Zevran prepared to say something, but subsided, obviously warned by something in the other man's manner.

Peep turned back to Sherry. "I can see ye be needin' me, then. I'll tell the Missus, and we'll have a bite to eat."

"We don't have much time," she told him.

"I know. Billy said you was comin' and I should pack. Supper'll be on soon if it ain't already. Then we's can go. But I ain't travlin' on a empty belly, and neither is you." His warm voice vibrated through them as he spoke.

As he and Sherry turned towards the cabin, Zevran exchanged a look with Wynne. Neither of them knew what to think of their new traveling companion.

"Sing it for me, Peep."

"No," he said, laughing with a deep rolling laugh that tickled as it passed over her and left her grinning.

"Come on. You know you want to," she wheedled.

He sighed, pretending to be dismayed. "Alright, but don't tell nobody." Then he sang, in his vibrating baritone, "My bags are packed, I'm ready to go… cause I'm leavin', on a jet plane. Don't know when I'll be back again… yeah, leeeavin', on a jet plane…"

As they vanished into the dark interior, Wynne asked Zevran, "What's a jet plane?"

The elf shrugged and followed the odd pair into the interior, wincing as Sherry tried to force her alto voice into an upper range she couldn't quite reach.


	38. Casing the Joint

**38. Casing the Joint**

"Someone's going to have to go in there and take a look," Sherry said.

"I'll go," Zevran answered, eager for an opportunity for action.

"You can't," was Peep's immediate response. "Ain't no way for a elf to go around in there and be safe. You'll be arrested and put into the New Alienage before you get six feet inside the walls."

"New Alienage?" Sherry repeated, staring at him blankly.

"Place the elfs are taken to soon's they land," Peep told her. "They's slaves is what they is, no doubt 'bout that."

"He has slaves?"

"Ain't only him, neither, Ma'am. He sellin' them, too." Peep looked down at the city over the walls. "Even if he sneaks in by way of the roofs, the other thiefs will notice him and turn him in. They don't like the elfs no more than no one else does."

"I'll do it, then. Are the roofs overly populated with thieves?" At Peep's noncommittal shrug, she nodded understanding and slipped away.

"What's got 'er all riled up?" Peep asked the other two.

"The whole world's in danger," Wynne answered. "Darkspawn, Archdemons, tyrants, betrayers, wars. I guess that's enough to upset anyone."

"Not Sherry," Peep told her. His piercing eyes, as deeply brown as his rich skin, gazed at her solidly. "She done been through more wars than the rest of us ever will. Back before the religious apocalypse, she says, they was wars all the time. The USA was constantly all over the world killin' people with their airplanes and their bombs. Why she don't like to use the old stuff. She think it's too much power for any people to be having. She told me, 'When you got to be face to face with the people yer killin', it makes it harder'. I ain't sure if she's right, but I do know that it ain't war got her all worked up like dat."

"Loghain's got Alistair," Zevran told the other man.

"Alistair? Who's Alistair?"

"A Gray Warden, one of only three on the planet that we know of," Wynne answered. "Only the Gray Wardens can kill the Archdemon and end the Blight."

"And her lover," Zevran interjected.

"Zevran!" Wynne admonished him sharply. "That's no one's business but theirs!"

"Lover?" Peep said, his voice dripping with surprise like a tree after a summer thundershower. "Well, I'll be. I ain't never knowed her to get person with no one. I didn't think I'd never live to see the day." When he turned back to watch the town again through the binoculars, his face was pensive and contemplative.

"Well, how long have you known her?" Zevran asked.

"Some seventy-five years or so," Peep told him.

Zevran laughed. "You're all of what, twenty-five?"

"I were forty when I met her, and she shared her secret with me. Far as I know, I'm the only one what she has shared it with, too. Me, and my wife and my boy. We ain't like her, though. We stay outta the public, mostly. Come into town for some things we can't make ourselfs. We watch the world change, but we don't be no part of it." He passed the binoculars to Zevran. "She gone over the wall, can't see her no more."

"What is her secret?" Wynne asked.

"Can't tell nobody, or it ain't no secret no more. It ain't no secret what she gots a secret, it only a secret what the secret is. If she lettin' you come to the cabin with her, though, she trusts you more than she ever trusted anybody but me and mine since I knowed her. That don't mean, though, that I'm tellin' you her secret. It ain't mine to reveal. I'm gonna get myself some grub. You want some?"

"Grubs? What are you going to do with grubs?" Wynne asked, curious.

He chuckled. "That's an old-fashioned way of sayin' 'food', Ma'am. Do ya want some food while we wait?"

When the other two nodded, he went and got some from the saddlebags of the massive Shire stallion he rode. The speckled gray beast stood some 20 hands [6.6 feet or 2.05 meters] tall, a size that everyone else seemed to find remarkably intimidating. Surprisingly, though, despite carrying a man who probably weighed as much as the other three combined, he seemed to have endless endurance coupled with a generally placid personality—a rarity in a stallion of any breed.

When he returned with the food, they ate in silence, all of their minds on the woman below.

For her part, Sherry was carefully making her way along the roof of a building that had sprung up near the intimidating fortress that she knew Alistair would be held in. A military prison that had been old even in her childhood, it still stood stark and cold against the deepening evening. Once it had been surrounded by a chain link fence, but now it was wrapped in a stone wall. Sentries paced along the length of it, others napping in the towers that jutted out of it like huddled vultures.

The security was tight. Either they were expected, or there was something more going on than just Alistair's trial. She suspected the possibility that there were local Warlords there for the trial, meaning that Loghain was intending to attempt a takeover of the entire area. It would be quite the coup, if he could manage to unite them. The main reason the area stayed safe was because there was no unity of purpose, and the most brutal of the Warlords tended to fight amongst themselves constantly.

Recognizing that she would be unable to kill as she went, or she would alert them to the presence of danger, Sherry slowly made her way across the wall toward the area closest to the water. There, she shimmied around the end of the wall, where they hadn't bothered to build it out into the water. She sneered at such shoddy work, and managed to make her way to the side of the building.

Slowly, she eased herself to the first set of lowest windows, easing through the ancient panes where glass no longer stood, only carelessly opened shutters, not even barred like most of the windows. To her surprise and delight, she found that she was in the Warder's office. She checked the charts and found the crude writing that showed where Alistair was.

Now, she thought, to get him out... A simple enough task—with an army and an Abrams Battle Tank. As it was, she had to decide whether to go find him herself, or go back and get the others. There was, however, the larger task of getting them into the city and then into the militarized zone outside of the prison.

A moment later, voices outside the room stole the decision from her. She dived back out the window and landed panting as quietly as she could just outside it. She froze as the door opened, fearful that the rocks beneath her feet would crunch together if she tried to move.


	39. Peep, Peep

**39. Peep, Peep**

"So what's your story?" Zevran asked Peep as they waited.

Peep sighed and leaned back against a tree. "We might not 'ave time for that," he told Zevran with a low chuckle.

"Or we might," Zevran parried the attempted deflection.

Peep sighed. "Alright then. A few years after the war found society here segregatin' itself. First it separated by religion, and then within them groups, it separated by race. There weren't many black people here to begin with, and they all started ta congregate together. But I weren't neither Christian nor Muslim, and them was the two religions what everyone was polarizing towards. So I moved to my own cabin up in the woods—twas a diff'rent one than the one we's livin' in now." He shifted and stared up at the starry sky.

"I were already in love with me wife, Sariah. She ranned away from her family to come to me, they was Christians. We maked the commitment to be together forever, and we started our life together. But over time, another small war broke out, and they was fightin' between the whites and the blacks in the Christian community. So the blacks all fled South, where they was rumors of a large black Christian population. They came to us and tried to get us ta go with them. It was hard, but we choosed to stay.

"But the Christians came a couple years later, after Billy was borned. They gave us medicines, tellin' us that they could make sure Billy never got sick with the disease what was killing children. I agreed to let them give him the medicines, and they left after they did. Billy and many of the other children what was given their medicines got sick, though. Billy changed and ain't never been the same since. When I speaked up against their medicines, though, they declared me a sorcerer. Then a few years after that, Billy started ta tell us to leave. He said we gots to run, and said it over and over again. I refused, cause back then I didn't understand how he was. But Sariah listened, and she taked him in the middle of the night and left me a note—she went to Sherry's Walk where she'd be safe. I should come find her and Billy there, if I valued my life.

"I were angry, though. I didn't go, and weren't a week later what the Christians came. They gave me a trial and they shot me, then they lefted me for dead. But they thought the heart be on the right side, and so they missed it. But I were dyin', sure 'nuff. And that was when Sherry finded me. She listened to Billy, too, when he telled her she had ta go find me. She telled my wife, 'I kin save him, but he might never forgive me for the how I does it'. Well, Sariah said it was okay, that if I didn't want ta live, I could kill my own self after. So Sherry saved me, and we moved closer to her place. But we's didn't want ta be part of the society what hated us, so we stayed to ourselfs like we always did.

"But society don't like diff'rent, so next it were the Muslims what came for us. But this time, I listened when Billy telled me to tell them what they wanted ta hear. I telled them I accepted their religion, and when they leaved, me and mine runned into the mountains and there we lived. But it were hard, cause sometimes you need things, ya know? So Sherry started a rumor for us what would help us. She gave me some of her secret stuff, and teached Sariah how ta make bread with it. She convinced people that anyone who helped me would get in return magic bread what could heal diseases and increase energies. Now I can ask fer help from anyone and day gives it.

"I owes Sherry, and me whole family do. There's is some what still hunts us. We hated by both religions, and they still people what believes them. The Christians, they think me the anti-christ, and the Muslims, they think me some kind of demon-djinn or somethin'. One of them—I don't know which—set the house on fire once. Billy almost died, cause of breathin' too much smoke. He didn't warn us, and when we gots there, I promised Sherry I would do anythin'-anythin' at all, if she'd just save my boy. She did, and later when I asked him why he didn't warn us that time, he said, 'When the Universe is in the most danger, your promise will be necessary. Without it, you wouldn't go with her out of fear for me.'

"So when Sherry came this time, I knowed I had to go. He told me so. There's monsters in the forest. I wouldn't have come with her, but I promised her my life if she'd save him. When she came to me, I knowed it in my soul—she needs me like I once needed her." He sat up and peered at the town below, lit only by scarce street torches and light from windows. "Darkness be fallin' upon us all now. I can't hide no more."


	40. Just Forget It

_I just want to offer a huge apology for the delay. I went on vacation, then had to reformat the PC, and then had to get a new monitor... etc. and et. al. Not making excuses, just explaining the super long delay and apologizing for it._

_I want to thank those who have reviewed and favorited. I enjoy and appreciate it very much. :)_

* * *

><p><strong>40. Just Forget It<strong>

Sherry crouched outside the window, listening as Loghain spoke with an unknown woman.

"They Earthers aren't going to accept you," the feminine voice said. "You've tried everything, and they simply refuse to be ruled by a Thedan."

"No, I haven't tried everything," Loghain's voice responded, a cold edge of steel hardening it and chilling Sherry's spine. "I will marry an Earther. Perhaps one of their daughters. Political alliances have always been forged in that way. Why should this be any different?"

There was a moment of silence, Sherry assumed the woman was considering. Or jealous? Perhaps she had hoped for marriage to Loghain for herself.

His footfalls approached the window, heavy and methodical.

"Perhaps I should marry Sherry. Those that do not revere her are petrified of her."

Sherry's suspicions of the woman were confirmed by her voice, if not her words, "But she's promised to Jesse, as a reward for giving you Sherry's Walk, isn't she?"

"That can be fixed, Ser Cauthrien. Hooper would no doubt be quite happy to assassinate him, from the tone of his letters." Sherry shifted and huddled against the wall as his voice sounded nearly from over her head, "And I would care little what state she was in when she arrived, provided she lived and could be Healed."

"But Ser-" the Cauthrien woman's voice sounded slightly alarmed and strongly disgusted.

"Don't look at me like that. She was injured in the battle." His sigh whispered out the window. "I'm not a monster, Ser Cauthrien. I'm concerned for the welfare of these people. If this world doesn't unite, it will be over-run."

"Yes, Ser," the female voice sounded cold, offended.

"I think it's the last resort-"

A sound behind her warned Sherry an instant too late. Loghain's comment was cut off as pain bloomed in Sherry's head like the twisted, gnarled rose bush they'd passed when leaving the compound. Darkness plundered her senses, a rabid dog leaving nothing aware in its wake.

She awoke to pain in a strange place. Plaster dripped from the ceiling, spots of bare stone peeking out of it like children at a circus trying to steal a glimpse of the stage when they hadn't paid. The bed beneath her was uncompromising, hard, and painful. Her head ached with a deep, rhythmic thudding that she dimly realized was her heartbeat.

She turned and tried to sit up, finding herself strapped down.

"Wha-?" she croaked, surprised as her voice came out barely above a whisper.

"Ah, you're awake," said a voice. She turned toward it, groaning as the movement sent fresh agony flaring through her poor head.

The gruff young man who had spoken stood and walked toward the door. Opening it, he left, banging it shut behind him, driving another spike through her head and bringing unbidden tears to her eyes.

Time passed, and she floated in and out of awareness, until the door opened, waking her abruptly as light flooded in. The same man walked in, accompanied by another man, with black hair and piercing eyes. His presence set her on edge, filling her with apprehension and inexplicable dread.

"Sherry, Sherry, Sherry," he said to her. "You should have just come in, rather than eavesdropping on me. Surely you knew you would be welcome here." He spread his hands as if to persuade her.

Confused, she tried to sort her thoughts out. "I was eavesdropping?"

He laughed, the sound cutting through her like a sword and increasing not only her pain, but her apprehension as well.

"Well, surely you weren't skulking outside my window with the intent to assassinate me?" he crossed his arms and lifted an eyebrow at her.

"I..." Was she trying to assassinate him? Of course not. "Who are you?"

He laughed. "Don't try that trick on me, Sherry. It's amusing, but hardly believable. After all we've shared, I'm hurt!"

"I'm sorry," she whispered. What had they shared? Who was he?

He sobered, staring at her. "What were you doing there, Sherry? You were supposed to be safe with Hooper in Sherry's Walk."

"Sherry's Walk?" confusion and hysteria rose in her. He was a madman! She started to fight the cuffs, tears springing to her eyes as the waves of uncertainty flowed over her.

He pushed her down, holding her, his hands surprisingly gentle. "You really don't remember, do you?"

"Please," she asked him. "I just want to go home!"

"My dear," he told her, "you are home, despite me trying to keep you safe by sending you to Sherry's Walk!"

"But I'm tied to the bed," she argued. Certainly, she couldn't be home in a place where she was tied to the bed!

"Yes, and I'm sorry for that. You kept trying to get up in your delirium. I finally ordered you strapped down so that you couldn't hurt yourself further."

"Hurt myself?" her head felt thick, as if several layers of fog laid over it like a benighted blanket.

"We argued after I caught you eavesdropping on Official business and injured yourself falling from a horse. You really shouldn't try to ride without an escort," he told her.

"But I'm an excellent horsewoman," she argued.

"Really? Are you certain?" he asked her, as if speaking to a small child. She bristled, and he patted her. "Do you think you can stay in the bed now? If so, I'll untie you and move you back to a better bedchamber."

"I don't think I could get up, anyway," she answered him, shrinking away from him as he reached for her.

He smiled at her. "I'd never hurt you, my dear. But I think perhaps you should stay here a little longer. It may not be safe to move you. I'll do what I can to make the room more pleasant for you. I'm so sorry I had to put you in here to begin with, but I was afraid of transporting you too far before getting you cared for."

He undid the straps and then rose. "Rest now, dear."

"Wait," she asked as he turned to leave. "Who are you?" she asked when he turned back to her.

"Loghain Mac Tir," her answered her with a bow. "At your service."

"And... and..." she fidgeted, afraid to ask him the question. "Who are you to me?"

"Why, your fiance, of course," he told her, as if surprised she had to ask the question.

"I... I'm sorry. It must hurt you that I don't remember you," she felt sorrow swell. Despite the feelings he engendered in her, she felt pity for him.

"Our engagement is largely political," he responded, then his face softened. "Though I would like to think that we had begun to develop..." he looked away as if embarrassed. "... stronger feelings than that... for each other. Perhaps we will again." His eyes did not meet hers as he turned away and left the room.

She stared at the ceiling. So it was a political alliance? Who did that make her, then? It didn't seem to fit, somehow. But she couldn't get her mind to dredge up any details—either for, or against, the idea as presented to her. Nor did anything explain the strange apprehensive feeling that gripped her upon seeing his face.

It made no sense. He seemed nice enough. He wasn't dreadful to look at. He was, although a bit gruff in the beginning, kind and thoughtful, having released her and sent for blankets and other comforts to see to her needs during their discussion.

She sighed and sank back into the bed. Sleep claimed her even as she fought to remember herself, him, or anything at all of value.


	41. Betrayal

**41. Betrayal**

"No, we don't know how a healing potion or injury kit could effect her memory," Loghain was telling someone as she awoke. She laid quiet and listened.

"It could restore it, or make it permanent. We really don't know for sure. What we do know is that right now she remembers nothing." The voice responding was old and creaky, like an oak in a thunderstorm.

"Come on, girl. I know you're awake." The ancient voice was close now, and Sherry opened her eyes to see a wizened old man peering at her. "That's better. How're you feeling?"

"Okay," she answered. "Still disoriented and confused."

The stooped elder grunted. "To be expected, girlie... to be expected." He poked at her and prodded her head a bit. "You'll be okay, I think. Aside from the memory problems, I don't expect any lasting issues."

Sherry drifted back to sleep, relieved but sad. Her memory loss could be permanent? The thought followed her into nightmares, featuring someone she loved who kept calling for her. But she couldn't find him, he was lost somewhere in her mind.

The one thing she did know, though, was that he was not Loghain.

The next day, a woman came in to take her measurements. She was informed that a dress was being prepared for her wedding. Angry, she demanded to know why she wasn't taking part in selecting it. The seamstress, cowed, fled the room immediately upon finishing taking her measurements.

Hours later, Loghain showed up and informed her that the seamstress would bring her cloth and various pattern cards, and she would, of course, be allowed to select her own dress for the wedding. He was, he informed her, relieved to know that she felt such a desire to be involved in it.

The admission seemed strange to her, but Sherry was too tired to dwell upon it.

For the next week, she was drawn into the arguments and discussions about the dress. But she was informed that her wedding remained many months away, so she had no reason to be concerned that she might not be prepared. Yes, it certainly took a long time, but it was a big decision. All of these comments did little to settle Sherry's increasing discomfort with her situation.

The next week flew by, until Loghain appeared as she was sitting up in her bed looking over lace samples.

"Are you ready to return to your chamber, my Lady?" he asked her.

"I'm not strong enough to walk yet, according to your physician," Sherry told him.

"I have yet the strength to carry you," he told her, obviously amused at her disclaimer. "Trust me, my dear. It's not so bad."

She smiled weakly, but submitted as he picked her up. She was surprised to find her apprehension lift slightly at the contact with his warm, strong body. She felt surprisingly comforted, and her eyes met his. His eyes were gray and steely, a color unlike any she'd ever seen before—that she could remember.

Her arm was curled around his neck, soft black hair falling over it, whispering and caressing it with its soft smoothness. His lashes were long and thick, she noted as they swept down over the eyes that bored into hers.

She understood then how 'something more' could develop between them. Without the barriers of memory and politics, perhaps. She sighed as the thought slipped through her mind, and his eyes flickered to her lips.

Just as his head began to descend towards hers, the door banged open.

"Alistair tried to escape again, Ser," the young man in the doorway said.

Loghain sighed, looking down at her. "Very well," he said to the young man, though his eyes still held hers. "I'll be there after I take my fiance to her rooms."

"Yes, Ser," the fellow said, darting out as quickly as he had arrived.

Loghain smiled at her, a slight, gentle smile. "I'm terribly sorry, my dear."

"It's not your fault," she replied, wondering who this 'Alistair' was that had interrupted their moment and resenting him. She was soon to be married to this man, and she hoped for 'something more' before that time. To be married without love seemed an empty experience to her.

He carried her out into the hallway, and down a set of stairs. She laid her head against his shoulder, listening to the rhythmic beat of his heart.

"Sherry?" the voice was alarmed, shocked... betrayed... outraged.

Her head snapped up, and she met liquid golden eyes, hauntingly familiar yet startlingly unknown. The man they belonged to was equally golden, his hair and thick beard both seemingly wrought of the precious metal. He was ragged and had clearly been abused. Something about him stirred something deep within her. A brilliant flare of something profound welled in her, and she stared at him in surprise.

"Sherry?" he said again, his voice pleading this time, the rage drained away and only a piteous sort of pain remained.

"Get him out of here," Loghain barked. "I don't want my fiance upset for the wedding, and it's clear that this beast is distressing her."

He was yanked away down the hallway, and she was left with misery pushing at her heart. "Who is he?" she asked.

Pale gray eyes met hers, and she was surprised to find him looking at her sympathetically, even kindly. "Alistair. He was your friend, but he betrayed you and lured you into the arms of a man who wanted to kill you. I'll tell you more about it another time. You should rest for now."

Sherry laid her head down on his shoulder, but this time the thudding of his heart seemed ominous. Because Sherry might not have her memories, but she did have her senses, and of one thing she was absolutely certain. The look on the golden man's face had not been that of a betrayer, but had been that of the betrayed.


	42. Twists of Fate

**42. Twists of Fate**

No light entered the chamber where Alistair wept. The steel door had closed over him, the thunder of its closing as quiet and as final as the hammer that struck his soul. The one person whom he thought would never, ever possibly have betrayed him, lying in the arms of the man who had already stolen everything from him.

There was nothing left.

At long last, the tears were done. He lay on the cold ground, ignoring the rat that tickled at his feet. He half hoped it would eat him, and end this unendurable, endless torture. Not only was his body wracked with pain, but at last the final hope left to him was gone as well.

There would be no rescue.

The one person he had known would come for him, the one person whom he had believed would do anything and everything to see him freed—or die trying—had turned from him.

There was nothing left.

No one else cared enough to come for him. No one else had the courage she did to infiltrate the dungeon he was being held in. The door around him was only one part of the real prison that held him. There was a whole city around it, soldiers everywhere, water behind.

There would be no rescue.

And really, it mattered little, because he no longer cared if he was rescued. He longed instead for the peace of death, where he would be reunited with the brothers of his heart—the other Gray Wardens.

Because he could never see Jesse as his Brother, and he knew that Callbrith would do the right thing and survive to destroy the Archdemon. There was nothing in this world, or the other, left for him.

The door interrupted his misery, slamming open.

"I am going to marry her. We will rule together. When the Landsmeet is complete, our wedding will take place, and your execution immediately after it." It was, of course, Loghain. "I would kill you now, but then I would lose the following of our fellow Thedans, and the Earthers would condemn me for not giving you what they call a 'trial'." He knelt beside Alistair's head, looming over him in the gloom. "Rest assured that until that time, you will pay for your insolence."

"She'll never love you," Alistair blurted, unable to stop himself. "When she finds out what you've done, she'll kill you."

Loghain laughed. "I don't care if she loves me or not, but it might interest you to know that she welcomes being in my arms. I promise you this, you insolent pup... she won't even remember you."

The door banged closed behind him, and Alistair realized his despair was so deep that he couldn't even weep. Darkness settled over every part of him, winnowing into his soul.

**oOoOoOo**

Sherry found that she could walk, albeit weakly. She thought perhaps it was more because she had been abed so long, than from the injury to her head. She walked to the armoire, finding nothing familiar about any of it.

She began to look through her clothes. Many dresses, courtly and fancy. Nothing simple in the lot, which surprised her. It was almost all as if she'd been getting married every day—the dresses were all elegant and fancy.

Something nagged at the back of her mind, until she went to the dresser and began to look through the clothing stored there. There was a wide array of underclothes and sundry items.

Yet nowhere she looked could she find what it was her instinct to wear... no leather breeches. No leather shirt. No riding clothes. Nothing that really felt like her.

She slowly walked back to the armoire. Rifling through her clothes, she realized that they were all new. No worn seams, nothing. Yet that was not unusual, she told herself. Why would a politician's daughter—as surely she was—have old things? She would dress her best, look her best, be at her best all the time.

Still, the revelation distressed her somehow. It didn't sit right, as if it were at odds with her personality. She couldn't argue with her own mind, though... she had no memory of her own personality or actions.

Carefully, she dressed in one of the dresses, feeling out of place and peculiar. It didn't look right on her, and she didn't recognize the person staring back at her from the sinfully luxurious full-length mirror.

A knock sounded at the door, and a maid entered. "Mr. Loghain wants to see you, Ma'am. Would you like me to do up your hair?"

"Yes please, Anna," she answered, sitting at the small table clearly intended for toiletry purposes. Soon, she was even more unrecognizable as her hair ended up on top of her head with curls slipping out to dangle around her face and neck.

"Well," Anna surveyed her work critically, "it's a bit spare, but it will do. He should be here soon." The maid slipped away as Sherry stared at the stranger in the mirror who couldn't seem to take her eyes off of her.

Another knock came, and then the door opened again. Loghain stood in the hallway, looking at her with undisguised appreciation. Sherry warmed to the expression on his face even more when he smiled and the crows' lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled. He seemed more human, more approachable.

"I see that you're walking about on your own today," he greeted her.

"I would like to go for a ride," she told him. "I believe I miss horses."

"Ah, so soon after your fall? I think that's a bad idea. However, we could go for a stroll, if you'd like," he told her lightly.

She came to the doorway and he tucked her hand through his arm. "That would be lovely," she answered, surprised to find herself looking forward to it.

They walked through another hallway. "I've a need to stop in my office for a moment, if it would be acceptable to My Lady?" he asked her.

She was uncomfortable at the urbane, archaic treatment, yet somewhat flattered as well. Was this her life? Did she want it to be? At least some part of her definitely did. "Of course," she smiled up at him.

They walked, talking briefly of the weather and other inconsequential things. Then they were at his office, and he stepped inside. She followed, surprised to find it small and sparse. He seemed to appreciate decadence for her, but did not indulge in it himself.

He walked behind the desk and opened a drawer. She turned to look around and saw a sword hanging on the wall over the small fireplace. It was simple, spare, and yet somehow elegant. Before she realized what she was doing, she had reached out and picked it up off of its supports, pulling it somewhat from its scabbard.

"Oh no, my dear. You don't want to mess with that. It's exceptionally sharp, and of course, you've always been clumsy with knives of any kind."

"I have?" for some reason, that surprised her, and her eyes met his.

He looked away, taking the beautiful, simple sword and replacing it. "I don't want you to hurt yourself, dear. You're far too important to me, and to the Kingdom. If you were to accidentally kill yourself, there would be civil war, without a doubt. That's why everyone is so glad you're healing so well from your accident."

She stared at him, gaping stupidly. "But I'm nobody," she said, aghast at the very idea she might be so important.

"No," he told her gently. "You're certainly not nobody, Sherry. Neither to this Kingdom, nor to me."

A thought slipped into her mind then. An insidious doubt that united with the doubt over the golden captive. He seemed insincere, as if he were seeking to seduce not only her body, but her mind and affections.

But then he fumbled with the box in his hand, and seemed genuinely insecure as might any lover about to seek the hand of his beloved. "I hadn't had the chance to give this to you," he told her. "We had to have it resized, but we hadn't gone yet to the Jeweler to get your proper sizing done. Would you accompany me so that you may wear it soon?"

His smoky gray eyes met hers, a plea in their depths that called other eyes to her mind. Yet it also tugged at her, and she repented of her doubts. He was trying very hard, and it was hardly his fault she could remember nothing of any of their prior relationship.

"Of course," she smiled. When he reached out to take her hand, she followed him from the room, her mind more on the sword than on the ring, as if it were the more precious—and hers.


	43. Kisses and Promises

**43. Kisses and Promises**

When they reached the outside of the building, she realized it was not only heavily fortified, but heavily guarded. "It looks like a prison," she told Loghain, shuddering and drawing her heavy cloak around her. Unconsciously, she moved closer to him, as if to be protected from the oppression of the walls around them.

He wrapped an arm around her, his boots crunching on the newly fallen snow. "It is, my dear. This is the safest place in Portsmouth, and you are among its most precious occupants. We live in a war-torn land, in the midst of a potential civil war even as we are attacked by foreign enemies."

She looked up into his face, finding him regarding her steadily.

"I cannot get accustomed to the idea of being important," she whispered. "Anyone could have been born into my circumstances-"

But he heard her, and he stopped and turned her towards him. His pale eyes held hers, and he tilted her face towards his, so that she could not look away.

"But it wasn't 'anyone', Sherry, it's you. You must take this responsibility. Your humble nature is part of what people love so much about you." His head lowered until he was speaking, softly, against her lips. "Part of why I have come to love you."

Then he was kissing her. His lips were warm and dry against hers, until he deepened the kiss when she did not resist or object. She struggled between the apprehension and discomfort he always engendered in her, and the sensual feel of his lips against hers. His fingers curled into her hair, and his other arm pulled her close against him.

The anxiety always curling in her belly around him slowly unraveled, and she found herself returning his kiss. At her response, he moaned slightly, his breathing ragged in her ear.

Then he abruptly stopped kissing her, leaving her lips feel swollen and hot. His voice was as ragged and raw as his breathing as he buried his face in her neck. "Sherry," he groaned, "I'm sorry. I meant to wait. To give you time..."

He seemed boyishly embarrassed, and she pulled back, touching him on the cheek. The braid that dangled beside it brushed against the back of her hand. "It's okay. I'm sure this is all very hard on you, too." She smiled at him before saying, "But we should get going. It's rather cold today, and the air is going right up my skirt." Then she blushed and looked away. Had she just mentioned what was under her skirt to a man who'd just kissed her? It would seem she'd been more addled by the head wound than they'd realized!

"Ahem," he said, and she realized he was fighting a grin. "Yes, we should definitely be off."

They crossed the open space to the gate quickly, and Sherry tried to reconcile the feeling of guilt that plagued her. She adamantly told it that kissing the man she was engaged to was perfectly appropriate and acceptable. The guilt, however, refused to be cowed and followed her to the jeweler as she walked at Loghain's side.

When they arrived, Loghain removed the box from his pocket, showing it to the jeweler. The little man bowed and scraped, accepting it with nothing less than obsequious reverence. "Lovely, good choice," he muttered as he puttered around.

"Can you do it immediately?"Loghain asked.

"Of course, Your Majesty, of course," the groveling jeweler told him. "I'll not rest until it's complete, Sir!"

"'Your Majesty'?" Sherry parroted mindlessly. With slowly dawning horror, she began to realize the import of being this man's fiance.

"And you shall be Queen," Loghain said, his voice matter-of-fact. "Had you not realized it?" He looked at her with a touch of disdain in his expression, and she felt anger boil to the surface.

"How, exactly, was I supposed to realize that?" she demanded, unaware that her hands had found her hips and she had taken on a battle stance.

Unaware or uncaring that he was treading on her, he raised his eyebrows and said, "I should think it's obvious, isn't it?"

"I have just over two weeks' worth of memories," she snapped at him. "None of which include you informing me that I was engaged to a King."

"Don't worry, dear. I will keep you safe. There's nothing to worry about-"

"That's a fine promise, but it has nothing to do with the issue here," she growled.

"Well, what exactly is the problem?"

She wanted to hit him right in his smug, arrogant face. "The problem," she stressed the word 'problem' with exaggerated clarity, "is that I do not want to be a Queen!"

"Ah, you didn't, but you had become reconciled to it. The people need you. They need a gentle hand to offset my own strong one. I will give them security, and you will give them unity. They already love you." He crossed his arms and smiled at her, as if he'd just solved everything. "Come now, you really do care about the people of this Kingdom, don't you?"

She searched herself for a moment, and realized that he had her. She did really, truly, genuinely care about the common people.

As if sensing his victory, he uncrossed his arms and spread them wide in supplication. "The people need you, Sherry. I need you."

That, oddly, seemed entirely sincere to her. No warning bells, no guilt, nothing rose in her to argue against the idea that this man needed her. So, quelling the discomfort that the realization brought up in her, she sighed and said, "Okay."

"Good," he said. "Now, shall we go get an ice cream?"

"Ice cream, in the winter?" Wasn't that a summer treat?

"When else?" he asked. "Do you have a lot of ice here in the summer?"

She shook her head, unable to argue against the logic of that statement. So she went with him and ate ice cream. It was different than she expected, but not unpleasant. Yet she knew it was different from what she had enjoyed in her forgotten childhood—but didn't know in what way it was different.

Loghain went out of his way to be charming to her, though he stated simply, "I am sorry, Sherry. I'm a simple man. Wooing is not something I have ever been good at. I married young and it was an arranged marriage."

"You were married before?" she asked him.

"Yes," he replied. "One cannot be a Teyrn and not be married. It's a necessary part of the title."

"So it was an arranged marriage?" her heart went out to him. "And now you are stuck with another."

"Yes, it was. But I loved her very much. Not a day goes by when I don't miss her," came the surprising response.

"I am a sorry substitute," she said, taking his hand.

He tightened his hand around hers, then patted it with his other one. "There are no substitutes for people, Sherry. Each love stands by itself." He looked away, staring unseeing at the people passing by in the street outside of the small shop they sat in. "Humans are complex creatures," he told her and smiled. It was a small smile that crept into her heart.

"Oh, I don't think you're that complex. Let me guess," she tried to lighten the mood. "Wine, women, and food, yes?"

"I'm afraid you've confused me with your other fiance," he answered. "I prefer ale and old war stories."

"Ah, I'm afraid I've forgotten all of my war stories, and all they seem to have here is Root Beer."

His answering laugh made her smile.

"Well, there are other pleasures a man can find in a woman's company besides war stories," he answered her. Then to her surprise, he blushed. "Begging your pardon, I meant that in the most appropriate way. Such as ice cream."

He stooped to take a bite and she watched him. He was a strange, and oddly charming mix of worldly and hard, yet shy and sometimes gentle. He could be arrogant and assuming one moment, even rather chauvinistic... but then turn around and be kind and thoughtful enough to apologize for what could possibly, maybe be taken as a too-forward remark.

He laid down the spoon and stood up. "Shall we return?" He took her hand and helped her get down from the high stool. As they left the shop, his hand on the center of her back warmed her.

They walked the streets, and suddenly Sherry asked, "Why do they follow us?"

"Who?" Loghain asked.

"The soldiers. They're discreet, certainly, but they're definitely following us."

"I set them to do so," Loghain told her. "We cannot be too careful. Both of us have enemies, only a few of whom are in the dungeon rather than at large."

The reminder of the golden prisoner, Alistair, did little to settle her. But the explanation was plausible, so she walked with him to the prison. She fought to keep herself focused on his conversation rather than think of the beautiful eyes that haunted her dreams. Dreams in which Alistair was no longer bearded, his hair was short, and he looked at her as if she were the entire world and everything in it.

Shameful dreams for an engaged woman to be having, for certain. Especially when the man she was to marry was so obviously a good, decent, even loving man. There could be no question or doubt that he had loved his first wife dearly. Every line of his body and his face had betrayed that truth as clearly as if she'd seen them together.

When he dropped her off at her suite, he kissed her again. This time, though, it was a quick, simple kiss, without the ardor of the earlier kiss.

"Will you dine with me this evening?" he asked her.

She smiled. "I would be delighted."

He bowed over her hand and walked away. Sherry was not surprised. He was born and bred a nobleman, of course he would have courtly ways.

She felt torn and conflicted. She longed for something simpler, more straightforward. She wanted something more secure, something more certain... but she knew not what. As she drifted towards sleep, she cursed the loss of her memories and pondered the fickle nature of her own heart.

The man wooing her certainly was worthy of love. She was wrong to dream of another when she had promised to wed for the sake of the nation.


	44. Difference of Opinion

**44. Difference of Opinion**

"So what are you going to do with him?" she asked Loghain a month or so later.

"Him? Him who?" he asked, blinking at her over their breakfast.

"Alistair," she replied, cocking her head to look at him.

He carefully placed his fork down beside his plate and steepled his fingers together above the food on the plate. "He will be tried and then executed for treason on Thedas," he responded. "He is a Gray Warden, and they are responsible for the deaths of the previous King."

"So he betrayed you, too?" she asked.

"Me too?" he looked blank, confused.

"You said he betrayed me. He betrayed you as well?"

She had grown accustomed to his somewhat gruff ways, but was startled when he replied, "It's none of your concern." He picked his fork back up and went back to eating, as if the discussion were dismissed.

She put her own fork down. "He betrayed me, and he's none of my business? How do you figure that?"

He took a drink of water, putting the glass back down with a 'thud'. "I will take care of it. Your attention to the matter is not necessary."

"You had tortured him. Are you still torturing him? Do you torture all of the prisoners? Do you really think that they're going to believe the trial is fair if you've tortured him?"

He held up his hand to forestall further questions. "I can see you're getting quite worked up about this. I will let you see him, so that you may see that I have not been torturing him at all. Is that acceptable?" He snapped at the page standing in the corner, who approached the table. "Get Ser Cauthrien," he told the boy. Then he turned back to Sherry, "Though I don't know why you're so interested. If you see him, and he is in good health, will you let the matter go until his trial?"

Feeling guilty for pushing him so hard, she set her fork down and nodded. "I'm sorry, it's just that he looked tortured..."

Loghain shrugged. "If it brings you comfort, dear, it's of no matter to me. He will be behind bars, he can do you no harm."

The woman that Sherry had come to know only as Ser Cauthrien entered the room and snapped to attention. "You summoned me, My Lord?"

"Yes. Can you escort Sherry to the dungeons later today and show her that the prisoner Alistair remains unharmed?"

"My Lord?" surprise flickered on her face.

Loghain turned to Sherry with a smile. "A moment, my dear," he said. Then he began to speak in Fereldan, apparently unaware that Sherry understood him perfectly well—a fact that surprised her as well. "Take her to see that Alistair is fine. She doesn't remember him, or she wouldn't be passively sitting there having breakfast with me, now would she?"

"But Ser, her memory could be jogged by seeing him," the woman protested in the same language.

"She has seen him, and yet there she sits. I don't believe she'll get her memory back at this point." Loghain turned back.

"I think this is ill advised, My Lord. The whole scheme is delicate and could fall apart at a single spark of memory. Letting her see him is-"

"You have your orders. Do you wish to face the consequences of arguing against them?" His voice had grown cold and he spoke then in English.

"No, My Lord," she said in the same language. She looked at Sherry then. "At your convenience, My Lady."

Sherry inclined her head. "Thank you, Ser Cauthrien." It did no good to alienate the woman, she supposed.

As the door closed, her mind churned. What 'scheme'? Could it mean something sinister?

Loghain stood up, walking around the table. "My Lady, would you accompany me on a stroll out of doors? I find the winter air bracing, yet refreshing."

"I should very much like to ride today, Loghain." When he looked as if he were going to refuse, she turned to pleading. "Oh, please. I miss riding so much! I feel confined and out of shape. Do not deny me the pleasure any longer? I promise to ride only with someone to ride with me!"

He sighed, looking into her face with his compelling gray eyes. "How can I resist you?" he asked her at last. "Come, my dear, and we shall ride together." He held out his hand and she placed hers into it with a smile. "Be careful, lady, for when you smile at me like that, I yearn even more to protect you from riding mishaps."

But he said it with a smile, and she hugged him with a laugh. He hugged her back, then pulled back to meet her eyes. "It's beautiful to see you so happy," he told her. "Had I known it was so easy, I might have relented sooner."

"Why, My Lord, did you just call me 'easy'?" She raised an eyebrow in jest.

"Lady, I swear to you, I would never even imagine such an accusation!" he protested, before kissing her soundly on the lips. "Though I admit that where you are concerned, the same could not be said for me," he told her. "But a smile and I am all yours."

She ran her hand through the silken hair at the nape of his neck. "I would wish that to be true," she answered, still smiling. "Yet I know you can tell me 'no', as you've done so about riding horses for months now!"

"And yet, here we go," he answered. Then he led her from the room.

A half hour later, she bustled into the barn wearing a riding habit. She preferred, she thought, to ride in leggings and a leather shirt. But she had become accustomed to the fact that her life meant dresses now, as a noblewoman and future Queen.

When her eyes had adjusted to the gloom in the stable's barn, she stopped short. In front of her was the massive head of a powerful beast. She couldn't believe the size of the animal, his head alone bigger than her torso.

That massive head was turned toward her, greeting her with a whicker. Unafraid, she walked towards the beast.

"Whoa, careful there, My Lady! That beast is a brute!" one of the stablehands called to her.

But she was already patting him gently on the head. The stablehand gaped at her in surprise.

"Whose is he?" she asked. "He's beautiful!"

"The Trader, ma'am," the stablehand answered. "Out there." He led her to the doorway, and pointed out a cart in the square just outside the gates of the prison complex.

A huge black man, obviously fitting for the creature inside, sat patiently behind the cart, wrapped in furs and speaking to a white-haired elf and an elderly woman. He looked up and saw her, then glanced away. But then he stopped and his stool crashed back down onto all fours.

"Sherry?" she saw him say, unable to hear him from the distance and noise.

"Ma'am, you should stay here!" the stablehand cried, grabbing her arm.

"But he knows me!" she told him. "Perhaps he can help me regain some of my memories. I would speak with him..."

"Sherry?" Loghain called from the doorway to the prison. "Everything okay?"

She looked back, but the black man seemed uninterested in her. He sat at his cart, apparently chatting easily with the others again. A customer walked up to view his wares, and he never even glanced her way again.

Hurt for reasons she couldn't calculate, Sherry turned to Loghain. "Yes, dear. Everything's fine." She gave him another smile. "I had taken a fancy to one of the horses, but apparently he belongs to someone. Perhaps you could recommend one?"

They walked into the darkness of the stable barn. Sherry glanced back behind her, to find the big man and his two companions staring straight at her and Loghain.

The expressions on their faces were familiar.

They, also, looked betrayed. A chill ran down her spine. Something, she was certain, was not right. Yet in the flurry and the joy of riding again, she let the incident slip from her mind.


	45. Prison Visit

**45. Prison Visit**

He sat in the cell despondently, his head in his hands. She searched him for any sign of torture, but there was nothing.

"Alistair?" his name tasted strange on her tongue, like an unused door opened for the first time in years.

Slowly, his head rose, and he stared blindly at her for a moment. Then his eyes focused, and he blinked.

"Come to laugh at me? Come to gloat? What do you want?"

"I wanted to be sure you were being treated okay-"

He laughed, a cutting, hard, dry sound devoid of even a breath of humor. "Yes, Sherry, I'm being treated famously. Locked into a hellish pit and watching my love cavorting with my worst enemy. I'm just great."

"What?" she demanded, but as she moved toward the cell, she was grabbed and pulled back. "He's a dangerous one, My Lady," the guard told her. "We can't let you get too close."

"I'm dangerous?" Alistair laughed that chilling, humorless laugh again. "The woman you're restraining is one of the most vicious killers I've ever seen. I wouldn't be you for all of the money on Earth—and Thedas, put together. And, it would seem she's a traitorous whore, as well."

She gasped, staring at him in surprise.

"Who do you think you are?" she snarled at him, suddenly angry. In part because, what if the accusation were true? How could she be certain.

A baton, wielded by the man who had been holding her back, smashed into Alistair's face through the bars, leaving a bloody nose in its wake. "You'll be respectful to the future Queen, if you know what's good for you, Prince Bastard."

It was clearly a derogatory, mocking nickname for him. In spite of herself, she turned on the guard, fury rising up in her. "Cease! You will treat him humanely, or I will see to it that you are stripped of everything you own."

"You have no power over me," the guard growled at her, spitting at Alistair's feet. "He's a bastard pretender, and I have my orders from Loghain-"

"I have no power over you... YET," she replied. "But you will treat him well, or so help me, when I do have power over you, I will exercise it with a ruthlessness you've never seen before."

The man shrunk back from her.

"I told you," Alistair said from inside the cell. "Vicious, traitorous bitch, she is."

The look on his face was undisguised liquid hate. She turned to go, the venom in his stare eating away at her back and her heart as she went. When she got to the end of the hallway, she looked back.

He looked broken and defeated, and she felt her stomach tighten. Somehow, though he was not being tortured physically, some part of her knew that if his spirit wasn't yet broken, it was certainly in painful tatters.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, knowing that somehow she was at the heart of it, though she knew not how or why.

Try as she might, she couldn't shake the image of him, shaven and shorn, his eyes alight with love and sparkling in a grin. In ways that she couldn't understand, he stood like a ghost between her and Loghain, equally as much as she knew Loghain's first wife's ghost stood between them.

She sighed and walked away, tormented by the vision of the lost soul slumped in a cell.

**oOoOoOo**

The other prison guard came back down. He stood at Alistair's cell door, waiting. Alistair ignored him, leaving the man to wait, unacknowledged.

"Hey pretty boy," the guard sneered, the hate clear in his voice.

At that, Alistair decided to look up, else he get the baton again.

"She got captured a few months ago tryin' ta save you. She don't remember nothin'. We ain't supposed to tell her nothin' and we ain't supposed to tell you nothin'. But I can't let you die without knowin' that you was being nasty and unfair to her. It ain't her fault." He gave Alistair a gap-toothed grin and slapped his hand with the baton.

"That's a nice tale," Alistair answered. "Too bad I know it's impossible. She's got ways of healing herself that you don't know about."

"Sure she does," the man turned to walk away, then looked back at him, "iffn' she can remember them." He cackled cruelly.

Alistair dropped his head in his hands. The man was cruel, spiteful. The idea that she had lost her memory didn't defeat him, it gave him hope. Alistair could only believe it was a cruel joke, because the man could certainly not have been giving him hope.

'I can't let you die without knowin' you was being nasty and unfair to her', he'd said.

As if he read his mind, the man said, "Don't git yer hopes up. The doc don't think she'll ever remember. Yer forgotten, man, she's moved on."

Then he laughed and walked away.


	46. Truth in Dreams

**46. Truth in Dreams**

"Flemeth?" she asked. The woman turned to face her. "What are you doing in my library?"

"What do you think I'm doing here? You called me here. Opened a portal right in the middle of the clearing, I might add." The dragonesque woman crossed her arms. "What do you want from me?"

But Sherry was distracted. "I remember!" she cried.

Flemeth's brow rose. "That's special, I'm sure. But why did you summon me here, Keeper?"

"I didn't. Or, I didn't knowingly do so. I remember everything. Why do I remember here?"

"Whatever are you babbling about, girl?" Flemeth's voice was short, irritated.

"I've lost my memory. I can't remember who Alistair is. I can't remember who I am. I'm... I'm engaged to Loghain." Horror flooded her. "Oh, what have I done!" She stumbled, sitting heavily in a chair. "I went to save him, and instead-"

"You've lost your memory? Why don't they just heal you?" Flemeth sat down across from her, perched on the back of the chair instead of the seat of it.

"I think Loghain's hoping to unite the area by marrying me," Sherry told her.

"They all think I have abandoned them. They don't know. I have to wake up! I have to go to them!"

"You can't, girl. If you can't remember in your waking hours, you won't remember this dream. But I can help. I'll send Maryanne."

"Maryanne? She's a snotty, useless brat," Sherry answered.

"She's a fully trained mage now, actually," Flemeth answered her. Then she reached out and grasped Sherry's head. "You'll remember she has come to help you, when the time comes."

Sherry woke in her bed, sweating and crying out. Her head throbbed and her throat had closed up with sorrow and a deep, abiding grief. It was as if she had lost something precious to her beyond words.

She'd been dreaming, but try as she might, she couldn't regain the memory of the vague, heart-wrenching dream. Yet the feeling remained, squatting in the room, a desperate, hungry vulture waiting for its prey to die.

Standing up, she dressed quickly and walked down the hallway. She didn't realize where her feet were taking her until she stood uncertainly outside of Loghain's office. Walking inside, she picked up the sword off of the wall. 'The woman you're restraining is one of the most vicious killers I've ever seen.'

She pulled it from its scabbard and swung it. It felt light, it felt right... almost as if it were an extension of herself. But the comment and the realization that she definitely knew what to do with a sword gave her pause. If she was a vicious murderer, then what did that make those she had associated with?

But holding the sword, she realized that she didn't want to let it go. It felt right, it felt hers. So she took it back to her room with her. She paced, slashing back and forth with the sword. 'Katana'. The word came to her and she realized it as truth.

She slept finally, the sword lying on the bed table beside her. When she awoke, she strapped it to her hip with a natural, unthinking motion. Arriving at the breakfast table, she sat down and began to eat.

"A sword? Really?" Loghain said less than a moment after he entered the room. "Do you feel unsafe, my dear?"

"No," she answered. "But I feel more like myself with it here. It's mine, isn't it?"

"It was meant to be yours," he answered. "But you were not very good with it, and you managed to hurt yourself and others. It would really be wisest if you were to put it back and leave the fighting to-"

"To those better equipped? More skilled?" she demanded, angry and bitter at once more being treated like 'a helpless female'.

He smiled at her, lifting the cup of coffee to his lips. Gray steam swirled around eyes the color of mist. "To the soldiers who get paid to do it, I was going to say." He drank calmly, and Sherry felt irritation rise in her. Did the man never respond to anything? He was a brick wall, never angry, never losing his cool.

"It's mine," she said. "I'm not giving it up." She picked up her own coffee and then ruined her moment by spluttering as it burned her. She set it down. "Why do they always give me coffee? I hate the stuff."

"Just promise me that you won't wave it about and hurt someone, then, won't you please?" he asked her, ignoring her indignation.

She sighed. "Actually, I want to go outside and train with the-"

"Absolutely not!" Ah, a spark of anger at last. "You will do no such thing!"

"You're overbearing," she snapped at him. "A tyrant!" She crossed her arms and glared at him.

"I'm a King, which makes me overbearing by nature," was his answer. "And you are to be my wife. As such, there are decorums you must maintain, and that means no sword fighting!"

They sat glaring at each other, until finally Sherry sighed and said only, "Fine."

"Fine."

She glared at the note of finality in his voice.

"You gave me your word, Sherry. No sword fighting." He waggled a finger at her and she rolled her eyes.

"Fine."

"Good," he nodded and went back to his coffee. "Would you like to ride today?"

He looked up and stared at her hand. She realized she was fidgeting with the engagement ring. "Does it not fit?" he asked.

She tried to smile. "It fits very well. I'm just nervous. The wedding is only a few weeks away." She didn't add, 'and I'm not sure I want to marry you' to the end of the sentence, but it dangled off of the tip of her tongue, desperate to be spoken.

He set the cup down and walked around to kneel on one knee beside her. "Sherry, I know this isn't ideal for either of us. But you should know that it will be good for the people of this country. It will create stability and we will be protected from those who seek to destroy us. And on a personal level, I care far more for you than I ever imagined I could care about anyone again after..." he sighed and laid his cheek against the back of her hand.

Tears rose in her eyes. He no doubt did care for her. And she cared for him. But the knowledge just made her ache for something she felt she knew, but couldn't remember. She reached out and laid her opposite palm against his other cheek. It was warm beneath her hand.

She laid her forehead against his, and said, "That's the nicest thing I remember anyone ever saying to me."

As she had hoped, he laughed. "There are advantages to having a bride with only her short term memory, I must admit."

He was joking, she knew. But the words didn't strike her as funny. Instead, they revived murmurs of the conversation between him and Ser Cauthrien about if she remembered, she wouldn't be with him.

She swallowed the unreasoning fear that rose in her and smiled weakly at him. Was she making some horrible mistake in marrying him? If she regained her memory later, would she find herself saddled to a man she could only hate?

Eyes made of mist met hers, and then he rose, still holding her gaze. He pulled her up and into his arms. His lips came down on hers, but this time, they were demanding and expectant. He kissed her fervently, almost roughly. It was baldly masculine, yet it turned her blood cold. She was not aroused by the kiss this time, as she had been before.

It was almost as if it were a political kiss. A kiss intended to cow her, or perhaps to subjugate her and show her where she belonged. She didn't like it, but he didn't let her pull away—though she didn't try very hard, feeling fearful and off-balance as she was.

When he released her, he stared at her with a look both possessive... and warning.

"You're done with Alistair, Sherry," he told her, his voice low and hard.

The door closing behind him as he walked out felt to her like the door closing on her own cell. All it was missing was the bars, and the windows made up for the lack. She walked over and looked out through the bars at the frozen water below.

Was this her ivory tower?


	47. Meeting in the Darkness

**47. Meeting in the Darkness**

She woke in the wee hours of the night. Something was terribly wrong, she could feel it. She slipped from the bed and grabbed the katana, unaware of her own actions. She crept slowly toward the door, strapping the scabbard on as she went.

The sword made no sound as it existed the sheath.

"Sherry?" the voice was deep and resonant. It was amazingly beautiful and compelling—even as it was terrifying, coming from the depths of her room.

"Who's there?" she demanded. "Speak quickly before I scream and bring the guards running!"

"The guards be dead," the voice said. "What are you doing here? Why didn't you return?"

"I'll ask the questions here," she told him. "Answer me now, or I swear I'll run you through!"

"It's me, Peep," the voice told her, confusion and surprise running through it. "You really can't remember anything, can you?"

Her sword was inches from him, and she knew it. "One movement, and you're dead," she told him.

"I ain't gonna hurt you," Peep told her. "You saved me, and you saved my boy. I owe you my life. I'd let you kill me right dead 'fore I'd harm a hair on yer head."

Light flared in the room. "This is all very sweet, I'm sure. But we need to get a move on," the woman with the light said.

"And who are you?" Sherry demanded.

"I'm Maryanne," the woman said. "I'm supposed to save you. Though I don't know why, you've always seemed kind of useless to me."

At the name, Sherry's head began to ache abominably. Her sword wavered and dropped, as if against her will.

"Who are you? What have you done to me?"

"I just told you. We're here to save you."

"I don't need to be saved. I'm marrying Loghain to unite the people in this area against the Darkspawn incursion," she told them.

"Bullshit," Maryanne told her. "You've been tricked into marrying your enemy so that he can have the power he wants. He doesn't care about you, and will probably kill you off as soon as his power is consolidated. Your memory recovering would be very bad for him. He isn't the one with the power, and he's not the one the people follow. You are."

Sherry felt like the world was all tilting around her. She was nobody special. It didn't seem right to her. Yet, it was something that even Loghain had never argued against. He also told her that she was important.

"And Alistair?" she could barely bear to ask the question.

"He's yer lover," Peep said. "The first one I ever seened you take."

She shook her head. "No," she whispered. The world capsized. He'd said as much, but she'd refused to believe it. She couldn't bear to stand by and do nothing as the man she loved lived in the dungeon and awaited death.

"No," she said again, barely able to hear her own voice. Her whole being objected to the truth about herself, the truth she'd felt but refused to look at honestly.

"Come on, girl, we gotta get out of here," Peep told her.

"I won't leave without him. He hates me, but I won't leave without him. I'd rather die," she answered.

"We can't get to him, and even if we did by some miracle get to him, we can't get out again," Peep argued.

"He's right. We have to leave and come back for him." Maryanne moved toward the door.

"No. I won't go without him."

"You can't fight in that," Peep told her, and pulled a pack off of his shoulder. He pulled some leather breeches and a leather tunic out of it.

Sherry took them in near reverence. Peep turned and courteously gave her time to dress. When the clothes were on, she knew. They were hers, fitting her perfectly except for a bit of looseness that made her realize she'd lost some muscle mass. Nothing some good workouts wouldn't fix...

She strapped the sword scabbard back on and followed the pair. She had no real reason to trust them. She felt like she shouldn't. Yet somehow, she knew that she did.

But at the same time, her heart ached. When Loghain found her gone, he would feel as betrayed as Alistair looked. It broke her heart to do it to him. He meant well. He thought he was serving the people. His intentions were honorable.

Well, aside from lying to a woman with amnesia, killing anyone who stood to oppose him, and exploiting the elves for cash by selling them. She'd only learned of that the day before, and had intended to confront him about it. Now she wouldn't get the chance.

So she snuck out of the room behind Peep and Maryanne, and into the dark bowels of the prison.


	48. Unlikely Salvation

**48. Unlikely Salvation**

"Wake up, Alistiar."

He looked up and found Peep looming over him in the gloom. "Peep! What are you doing here? Are you insane? We'll never get out of here!"

"I know," the man rumbled at him. "She wouldn't leave without you, though."

He looked over his shoulder, and Alistair looked past him to find Sherry standing there. Rage and pain boiled up inside of him. "I won't go with her. Take her away, I'd rather stay here and die."

"Alistair, please," she said, and he fought the urge to rush over and crush her with his bare hands.

She was no longer wearing any of the pretentious dresses. Her hair was longer, pulled back into a braid and falling over her shoulder. In the darkness, her blue eyes looked black, and it was almost possible to forget that she was the one person in the world he loved more than any other.

Looking away, he stood up and accepted the armor and sword Peep offered. He met the other man's eyes, "This doesn't mean I forgive her. I just prefer not to sit in Loghain's dungeon passively waiting for death."

Peep nodded. "I feel you, Warden."

He followed them as they left the cell. Sherry crept ahead, and he heard the sound of a body falling, a cry of alarm, a short scuffle, and another body falling.

Getting to the dungeons from the interior of the prison had been easy. But now they had to get out, and Alistair and Peep could not move with the quiet stealth of the women. Though even Maryanne did not have Sherry's stealth, of course.

"We're never going to make it," Alistair muttered.

"Are you going to whine the whole way out? If so, at least you won't make it, because I'll kill you," Maryanne told him.

"No doubt the stench rising from those furs you're wearing will take care of that job long before your magic can do it." Alistair glared at her.

"That 'stench' as you call it, is waterproofing. I'll be alive long after you, since you've got no furs at all. You're a walking tin can waiting to freeze to death."

"Nice to see some of us getting along so well," came Sherry's voice from behind them, dry and acerbic.

Alistair felt like snapping at her to mind her own business. Or maybe hitting her in the face. Beating her senseless. Or other nefarious deeds to show her just how he dealt with betrayers. That memory loss nonsense? He didn't buy it. He needed to polish up his 'nefarious deeds' skillset so he could deal with Loghain. And who better to practice on than Loghain's lover?

But he settled for glaring hatefully at her. When she met his eyes, he saw sorrow and understanding in hers, which made him rage harder. He didn't need her pity, especially as she was the root cause of the problem. Well, her and Loghain.

Her lover, he reminded himself again, else he soften towards her—a thing he had to protect himself from at any cost.

"We should go this way, and try to get out the back. The front courtyard is filled with guards. They've discovered me gone already."

Feeling spiteful, and resentful of all the time he'd spent in solitary, Alistair told Peep, "The Rogue wants us to sneak out the back like cowards. Raise your hand if you're surprised."

She didn't take the bait, but instead turned and vanished into the darkness. He hated it so much when she did that before, but he hated it more now. Perhaps he shouldn't be needling her so much—he knew her skill at killing. But surely death couldn't hurt this much.

He grudgingly followed when Peep headed down the corridor in her ephemeral wake. If they dallied, they might lose her, so they hurried before the trail of her passage grew cold.

"Stop," her voice whispered from ahead of them.

"What is it now?" Maryanne complained.

"There are no guards in this passage. Not a single one."

"That's good, isn't it?" Peep asked, his voice booming in the corridor despite him keeping it low and quiet.

"I don't like it. It feels like being herded. Loghain's sly enough to send us right where he wants us. Which means that he knows you are with me, and he'll be ready for all of us. If he thought it was just me, and knows my skills, then he would expect me to simply find a back way to disappear."

"Even if he doesn't," Maryanne said, "he will expect us to have a rogue with us to guide us through here."

"Fair enough," Sherry answered. "I would say it's strange he has made such a mistake as to make it so obvious, but I believe we have no choice—which is, of course, the way he intended this to go. We can do nothing but continue. However, you should know that we may not get out of here at all, particularly not safely."

"Where will be coming out of the building at?" Peep inquired.

"Near the stables," Sherry responded. "We'll be trapped between that and the waterfront. There's a pretty large area that you can go around the back of the wall in the water—it's not deep. But it's winter, and going through that will be a terrible idea. We'd freeze to death, even Maryanne of the stinky furs."

"Hilarious," Maryanne said. "No, really." Her voice put the lie in her words.

Alistair fought amusement. He had no choice but to resist the charm that had once captured him. Sherry could claim lost memories, but it couldn't be proven. She had been with Loghain long enough for her loyalties to be questionable, no matter what. Even if she had lost her memories, she could have fallen in love with him and now be helping to lead them into a trap.

"Why are we letting her lead us? She's probably leading us right into a trap."

"Cause we ain't got no choice. You goin' to scout for us?" Peep was glaring at him.

But Peep was biased. He hadn't watched as Sherry kissed Loghain in the yard of the prison. He hadn't seen them walking hand in hand through the hallways during dinner at the mess hall, passing by the windows. No. Peep was biased because Sherry saved his son a thousand years ago and gave him immortality.

Peep, unlike Alistair, had a bias. But Alistair was highly trained in battle and strategy, despite not having taken his vows. He couldn't afford the luxury of being biased in her favor.

"I think this is a mistake, but fine," he said aloud. "I suspect we'd have gone this way, anyway. Loghain isn't going to let us get out of here."

So he followed the shadow of his lost love down the dark passage. And if he had a certain bias of his own, he was able to ignore that fact in a bid to protect his heart from any more loss.


	49. Confrontation

**49. Confrontation**

They emerged into the first rays of the dawning sun as they stretched across the land like bony fingers. Trees and buildings both were rugged outlines against a lightening sky, while the wall squatted all around them, huddled and threatening. Guards stood on it like hungry crows, black against the sky, with steam rising from the hands they sheltered their mouths with.

The four paused, unsurprised by the sight that greeted them. Pale flakes drifted down around the open yard, landing on the helms and shoulders of men and women who flanked the door on each side, and those who waited at the fore.

"You could have had everything," Ser Cauthrien greeted Sherry, her breath steaming as she spoke. "You could have united this entire region under Loghain's banner. It would all have been settled in a couple of weeks."

Alistair shuddered. Despite the fact that he was wearing winter gear—lined with fur and leather—it was cold, and he hoped that she wasn't going to keep them chatting. Some fighting would warm him up, and he could also take his overwhelming rage out on something or someone at last.

To his surprise, Sherry's answer was short and cavalier. "Easy come, easy go." She pulled her sword out and continued, "Fight or get out of the way."

"I told Loghain you would be a problem if you regained your memory," came the answer, as the other woman pulled her own sword out.

"I haven't," Sherry answered.

Ser Cauthrien's sword drooped. "Then why fight? Why run away?"

Sherry stood in the cold, and Alistair turned to look at her, curious himself.

"I don't know. I guess because there are too many questions unanswered and too many comments that don't make sense." As if she were mimicking someone, she switched to Fereldan and said, "'But Ser, her memory could be jogged by seeing him!'," then her voice changed into a deeper mimicry, and she finished, "'She has seen him, and yet there she sits'."

Ser Cauthrien's jaw dropped. "You know Fereldan? None of the Earthers ever bother to learn it, they all expect us to speak English!" She shook her head. "You misunderstood-"

"I don't think I did. Loghain has kept me under the strictest of control, despite doing it with a veneer of courtesy. He couched it as protection, but even without my memory, I haven't become magically too stupid to make simple deductions." She sighed and held her hands out. "Let us pass. If the truth can stand up to scrutiny, I'll be back. If it will really unite the New Hampshire-Maine territories, I will come back. Do you really believe it will, or don't you?"

"I know it will," Ser Cauthrien answered. "There will be a Landsmeet—what you call a Summit meeting. If you change your mind, return by then and marry him. The clans will be united under his banner only by you joining with him." 

"I will consider it. But there are rumors that he is selling the elves as slaves-"

"He would never!" Ser Cauthrien argued.

"Let me learn the truth for myself," Sherry argued.

"Very well, you may go. But Alistair must stay. He threatens Loghain's claim-"

"No deal. He goes or you die," Sherry cut her off.

Cauthrien shrugged. "So be it." She turned her head, obviously speaking to her men, "Try to take them alive. Sherry mustn't be harmed, but if the others cannot be taken, then do as you must."

Sherry slashed upwards, easily knocking aside a sword that was descending toward her head from one of the nearby soldiers. With a slash, she brought the katana down on the side of his hand, sending his sword flying wide. Then, she plucked his sword up with her other hand and planted her foot into the joint between his codpiece and his legplate. Stunned, the man doubled up, his breath whooshing from his lungs. She sliced his head off easily, crossing her katana with his sword.

The geyser of blood that struck her stole a great deal of her courage. A part of her quailed at the sight of it, the scent of it, and the reality of what she had just done. She had taken a life equally as casually as Alistair had accused her of.

It was as if her body knew what to do, without the participation of her mind. She ducked under a double handed swing from another soldier, the truth of her unthinking reaction showing her the truth of her nature.

He was right. She was a cold-blooded murderer, and she couldn't stop herself as the katana slashed out and sliced through the man's foot while she was ducked low. As he fell, the other sword struck as swiftly as a cobra, screaming through plate armor and into the man's heart. His eyes stared at her in shocked horror.

Her heart screamed at her, her mind shrunk from her actions in abject misery, and her body responded to the chaos around her without her express permission. She leaped backwards when another swung at her, feeling the blow land well enough to tear a gaping hole in her sleeve. Blood ran down her arm from the cut, hot and violent against the cold of the winter day.

Scents both obscene and familiar hung cloyingly in the air against the benign backdrop of fresh snow. Red blossomed against the white snow, stark and sharp, sucking up the falling flakes with greedy hunger.

Sherry saw Ser Cauthrien strike Alistair with a powerful blow, staggering him backward. Several men stood between her and the pair, but she zeroed in on them, two bright silver spots amongst the red of blood and the blazing white of snow. Mud churned at their feet as Alistair swung back, his head falling back to let out a shout that curdled her blood.

Around him, men and women stopped in their tracks, stunned. She dropped to a roll, tucking past the first man, stabbing him in the kidney with the katana and then slicing his throat. He fell, gurgling, to the ground.

That time, Sherry didn't even notice. She flashed to the next man with all haste, but found her attempt to end his life quickly hampered by the fact that this one put his life ahead of his visibility—his helm was closed.

So she stabbed between the plates of his chestpiece, but her katana skittered off of bone, having hit at the wrong angle to slice it as it was well capable of doing. He shook his head as the pain assailed him, and turned on her fully.

But he didn't swing wildly to the attack as his fellows had done. He kept his guard up and swung the shield into place to protect his injured side. She feinted with the offhand sword, and he slapped it easily with the shield. A low slash with the katana was handled in much the same way, throwing her off balance.

As she caught herself, she felt him again use the shield instead of the sword, and realized her mistake. He slammed it into her, full-body. The force of it threw her backward, but he heaved the massive thing again and again in rapid succession. She staggered, then slid back, landing hard on her knuckles, still wrapped around her swords. He hit her in the face with his plated fist, ignoring the deadly blade to get the faster shot in and press his advantage.

Her head bucked back, and she felt the sword slide into her belly. Gasping, she stared down at it as it slipped back out. Then she felt something tingle across her skin, some of the pain easing. She was being Healed, and realized it was Maryanne when she looked up to find the other woman's eyes on her as her lips moved in a chant.

The soldier had assumed her dead and made the error of turning away. Sherry carved him a new hole in his heart with the katana. But her stomach screamed still with pain, though she could still fight. She dropped the second sword to clutch at her abdomen.

"That's the best I can do," Maryanne told her. "Be more careful from now on, or you're on your own."

Then Sherry was distracted by Alistair's fight with Ser Cauthrien again as Maryanne's attention turned that way with another Heal. Alistair's wound, Sherry's mind noted dimly, was not as severe as hers, and with the Heal seemed to cease hampering him at all.

But something in Sherry felt a need to protect him, regardless. Uncaring that he was better equipped than her to face the onslaught, she moved toward the pair. Circling behind the other woman, Sherry searched the well-made armor for weaknesses. She finally saw one, a bent segment right at the corner of the shoulder.

Despite the sharpness and durability of the katana, it still took all of Sherry's strength to shove it into her armpit, disabling her arm. The shield she held clattered to the ground, and Alistair took full advantage, nailing her with the shield he held, in much the same way Sherry had been hit earlier.

Ser Cauthrien staggered back into Sherry, turning and slicing into her with her own sword before even registering who her attacker was. Sherry gasped in agony as the sword followed almost the same path as the other had, reopening the only slightly healed wound.

Alistair's sword narrowly missed her as he dropped his shield and used both arms to give it enough force to sever the woman's head. He still failed, though, cutting only deeply enough to cause blood to explode from the wound. Rather than staunching the wound, the woman's helm redirected the flow, still rushing with the force of a beating heart, and to Sherry's horror, it gushed into her face.

As Ser Cauthrien rolled off of her, clutching her ravaged neck, Sherry rolled over and puked, the contents of a mostly empty stomach fighting for freedom. She retched and gasped in agony as pain flared in her stomach.

She looked up as the retching subsided. Alistair was fighting again, and she struggled to get up, to help him. But her body would not respond. She looked further, and saw Peep, his arms wrapped around one assailant, crushing the life from him. Another rushed him, and the mighty gray beast he owned chased the man down.

Sherry stared in awed terror as the massive horse, far larger than she could imagine any such creature being, caught up to the soldier. Powerful jaws, already covered in red, snapped onto the shoulder of the man, dragging him down. The beast reared, a piercing scream coming from his throat that chilled her. He came down, battering and stomping the man he had just thrown to the ground.

Another sought to hamstring the great beast, and it lashed out, hooves larger than serving trays striking him in the chest and bending his plate armor in with the protesting shriek of abused metal. The man crawled on the ground, blood running from his helm—clearly his lung had been punctured.

She couldn't look away as Maryanne whispered and caught a fleeing man with unnatural paralysis. Another word, and he was hit by flames. Screaming, he was yanked from the freezing paralysis, only to be struck by another fireball created from the clear blue nothing.

She shook her head, shuddering. "No," she cried, tears rolling unheeded down her face. Death, pain, and suffering was everywhere. She looked into the horrified, dying eyes of Ser Cauthrien and felt rising despair.

"I'm going to kill you now, girlie," said a voice behind her. "But first, I'm gonna have me a bit of fun. I don't think yer in no position ta be objectin', are ya?"

The gap-toothed smile in front of her brought forth a powerful rage. "Loghain will see you flogged and then butchered," she said before she even thought of it.

"He ain't gonna know 'bout it. You ain't gonna live."

She couldn't lift her sword. Her body wouldn't answer her calls.

"You got kidney-shot," he told her. "You ain't gonna be doin' no more fightin'." He laughed, a cruel, vicious sound, and picked up her arm. As he dragged her away from the fight, pain made her shriek involuntarily.

It was getting harder to breathe, and she felt darkness surrounding her. But there was a contentment with the fact that at least she wouldn't be alive to find out what this man had in store for her.

Then suddenly she was released. Through the blackness swirling in front of her eyes, she looked up to see blood raining down on her. Hooves landed beside her head, and terror struck her. The man landed, as well, his eyes bulging from a hideously disfigured head. He had been bitten by the great gray beast, who stood quivering over her, blood dripping from his frothing hide.

Two more soldiers approached, and to her surprise, the animal fought them off, powerful legs and teeth making fast work of them. But even as she slipped into unconsciousness, she saw that one of his back legs had been lamed. He was crippled, and the remaining moments of his life were probably not much longer than hers.

"Easy, Misty," said Peep's deep voice. "Easy boy."

His dark face appeared before her swimming vision. She felt him working on her, then suddenly the pain eased. His face came back into focus. She sucked in great breaths of air, and found she could rise, though painfully.

"How?" she didn't finish the sentence.

"Injury kit from one of the soldiers. Seems he was hording it."

"Is there another? The horse-"

"No," was the short answer. "If we could git 'im out of here and back to my house, we could save him. But not here. He'll be put down..." Peep didn't even bother to hide the tears that coursed down his face.

"You named a stallion 'Misty'?" she asked, looking around the churned battleground.

"Seemed to fit at the time," came the answer, shortened by tears.

"It would take an army to put him down," she said, trying to ease his obviously broken heart.

His eyes went past her. "Like that one?"

She turned to see Loghain at the lead of a large number of soldiers. Maryanne and Alistair joined them, facing down the oncoming group. There was no hope of escape as Loghain held up his hand and a phalanx of archers lifted their bows.

"This," Loghain said, "will never do."


	50. Big Bahdah Boom

**50. Big Bahdah Boom**

"Now, Sherry, why would you trust these people?" Loghain asked her. "Why return to a man who betrayed you? Who lied to you, who killed his King?"

"You're the traitor, and it was you that killed Caillan!" Alistair shouted, moving forward only to be restrained by Peep.

"I don't trust them," Sherry admitted. "But I trust you even less. You claim they have lied to me, but I know you have."

Loghain shifted. "I told you what you needed to know to help you make the right choice," he answered her.

"The right choice for whom, for you?"

She felt panic and despair well up in her. She searched her mind for a way out, but knew it was fruitless.

"For all of us, Sherry. Do you not want peace? Do you not want security?" He lifted his hands and spread them wide. "I can give us that. All of us."

"At the cost of freedom and truth. At the price of human and elven lives."

"Kings cannot afford the luxury of morality," Loghain responded, his horse shifting beneath him. "You were captured so easily because you didn't understand this fundamental fact. Morality is for those we protect. They can afford not to kill because we do it for them. They can afford to sit in judgment upon others, because we protect them from those who would force them to choose life or their so-precious morality."

"Your intentions are noble, but you are doing the wrong thing-"

"Noble?" Alistair objected with a yell and a barking, hard laugh. "Noble? He's about as noble as Misty's ass!"

"Come," Loghain said to Sherry, ignoring Alistair's outburst. "Come back to me. Marry me. We will bring peace and security to this war-torn land. Everyone wants that."

"Peace and security is a fragile thing, even moreso when it comes with a collar and a yoke."

She had failed to find a way out. She realized suddenly that she longed for counsel. She longed for someone whose wisdom could help guide her. The longing started small, but then it grew. She felt an overwhelming rush of emotion, then suddenly it was as if she was being torn apart from the inside.

Pain rushed through her like a torturous wind. Her chest seemed to expand until she couldn't bear it. Mentally, she PUSHED at the pressure building up in her chest, and suddenly it released and she staggered.

The ground in front of her erupted, and there was a harsh tugging at her body as though all of her energy was being yanked from her. The soldiers milled in surprised turmoil, and the boiling ground continued to rise until it had formed a strangely wrought structure. Another jerk on her body staggered her again, and brilliant blue appeared inside the archlike structure.

"Run!" Peep shouted, pushing Alistair and then Maryanne into it.

But Sherry hesitated, jerking back as he tried to pull her into it. Misty would never fit through that portal, and suddenly it meant everything to her that he be able to escape with them. Another wrench that felt like it was yanking her guts out, and the portal expanded with a screaming wind. She slapped Misty on his rump with all of her remaining strength.

Startled, the stallion gave a hopping hobble, stumbling into the portal even as one of the arrows struck him in a quivering flank. Sherry and Peep stumbled after, Peep stoically grunting as he was also struck by an arrow.

There was a sudden, excruciating 'bang!' and Sherry saw stars whirling in front of her eyes. She drooped to the ground, supported only by Peep's formidable strength.

"What the hell just happened?" Maryanne's voice penetrated the darkness falling over Sherry's mind.

"The Keeper saved you, I would guess." The voice was familiar, but Sherry wasn't sure how or why.

"Flemeth," Alistair said. "I should have known."

"Watch your tongue, boy," came the husky feminine voice. "Keeper, are you okay?" Sherry realized a very strange looking woman was kneeling beside her.

"I feel a little faint," Sherry replied, her voice distant and dim to her own ears.

"You'll be fine after some Heals and a bit of rest," the woman replied. "You'll be up and about by tomorrow."

"Rest sounds good..." Sherry's mind went dark as sleep claimed her.


	51. Secrets Untold

**51. Secrets Untold**

"What happened?" Alistair asked.

"Is it not obvious?" Flemeth asked.

"If it was, would I be asking?"

"You are impertinent."

"And stupid," Maryanne added to Flemeth's comment.

"The Keeper-"

"Sherry?" Alistair clarified.

"Of course, Sherry," Flemeth responded, then continued. "The Keeper opened a portal. Though why it ended here, I do not know. I had not thought she could do it yet, but clearly she can. It changed size, I assume to accommodate the horse. It was that which taxed her beyond her ability to remain conscious."

"What portals? Keeper of what? How did she do it?" The new voice was Wynne, eagerness and fascination rampant in her voice.

"Ah, that shall be for another time. To keep it simple for the moment, so that we can begin the care of her wounds, this all happened because a portal was breeched. There's much to what has happened here that you don't know or understand yet. It's not time for it to be exposed yet, either. Nor is it my job to do so." Flemeth walked over to Sherry and began to apply poultices, ignoring their heated arguments attempting to get more information from her.

Wynne had already Healed Misty, as well as the others, but the wound on his leg remained. When finished with Sherry, Flemeth walked over and began to work on him. To the surprise of all present, he didn't object at all, though he usually spurned strangers immediately.

"Go eat," she told him when she was done, and the big horse wandered over to the trees and began digging at the snow to get at the grass beneath.

"What's going to happen to Sherry?" Peep asked. "She can't remember nothin'."

"Use the red powder," was all Flemeth said. "It will take time, but she'll get it back."

They all ate, cleaning their gear or otherwise occupying themselves until long after the sun went down. They went to bed that night in uneasy silence while Zevran, unusually quiet, stood first watch despite Flemeth's reassurances that all was well. The only one missing from the group was Callbrith.

Alistair laid on the ground, looking up at the sky. The snow had stopped and now-familiar stars made him long for simpler times. Once, he had laid on his back in a new snowfall with Duncan and the other Wardens around him. The stars he'd stared at then were different, and the fact put a strange unease into his heart.

He rolled over and looked around him. Lumps, barely visible in the deep, penetrating darkness that surrounded him, indicated his companions. He was glad to still be alive. He was glad to be out of the prison's dungeon.

But he couldn't stand knowing that Sherry was there. He wanted to kill her. He wanted to kiss her. He could neither understand, nor stand the turmoil inside of him. He was as certain that he would never sleep that night as he was that dawn would come and bring complications and difficulties with it.

He was wrong on the first, but right on the second. Morning came with a watery, unwilling light that cast everything in tones of yellow and pale orange. Cold seeped into his bones and his breath steamed as he woke.

He sat up to the scent of frying bacon—he'd become very fond of the stuff since he'd arrived on Earth—and the sight of everyone roused from their slumber besides him. Flemeth was nowhere to be seen, and upon inquiry, it seemed she had vanished in the night. He was unsurprised, except that Maryanne remained with them.

He hesitated to ask it, but he finally felt forced to. "Where's Sherry?"

"Maryanne heated the spring at the foot of the hill for bathing," Wynne answered him. "Sherry's washing the blood from herself."

"More like scraping herself bloody," Maryanne interjected. "One would suspect that she thinks getting blood on her means she must spill all of her own to compensate."

"She doesn't like killing," Wynne told the younger woman, a scowl on her face.

"I doubt anyone particularly likes it," Maryanne said. "Messy business as it is. But suffering guilt over those who would kill you if you didn't kill them first is pointless and probably borderline insane."

"Not everyone sees it that way," Wynne answered her, the frown deepening into an outright dirty look.

"Some people are blind, true enough."

Wynne just shook her head and rolled her eyes.

Finishing his breakfast with great haste, Alistair set off down the path toward the pond. He saw the mist rising from it before he even got near it.

"Where are you going?" Wynne demanded.

"She shouldn't be left alone," Alistair answered. "We can't trust her."

"No, we can," Wynne responded, "you can't."

He shrugged. It made little difference to him whether they saw it or not. She had betrayed them all, and if only he could see it, then it was up to him to act accordingly. Someday, they would appreciate his diligence.

He stood watching her, surprised to find that some of the old Sherry seemed to be seeping through. After every battle he could remember, she had scrubbed herself like that. It was as if she wanted to wash away the killing, not simply the blood it brought about. He wondered how it was that she never seemed to become used to it as others did.

Something must have alerted her to his presence, a crunch of his boot perhaps, or something else. She looked up, and stared at him in surprise. He assumed he must look very different to her, as he had shaved and cleaned the day before when Maryanne had heated the pond. The look on her face was gratifyingly shocked, and he almost grinned.

But she recovered, crossing her arms over her breasts, and he felt a twinge of regret—he should have peeked while he had the chance, but his Chantry training had kicked in. He'd almost turned his back, even.

She didn't deserve such courtesies. She was no lady, she was Loghain's whore. He hardened his heart and stared at her with a scowl. She shifted and blinked, then turned away, sinking into the heated water. Her hair fanned out across the surface, and Alistair made a decision, somehow triggered by the sight.

He divested himself of his clothes and walked into the water. She surfaced and turned at the splash of his entry.

Her voice quavered as she said, "What... what are you doing?"

"Taking a bath," he told her. "What did you think I was doing?"

She bit her lip and looked away. "For some reason I would have expected you to be courteous and wait for me to be finished."

"Once, I probably would have," he admitted. "But then again, you would have taken your bath quickly rather than taking all morning for useless scrubbing that does nothing to make you cleaner and just makes you look ugly and red."

He regretted it as soon as he said it. And not only because it was a lie, but because it was a hurtful one.

Her eyes were wide as she stared at him. Then she spoke quietly, "I sometimes think that I know you. But then you do things like that I realize exactly how much of a stranger you really are."

"Good," he answered her, ignoring the guilt clamoring in his heart. "You should never forget it."

She slipped past him, staying low in the water until she was near the beach. There she stood, shivering clearly in the contrasting cold air.

He stood as well, stopping her as she was reaching for her clothes. She came up holding just the katana. He knew he should be afraid, but he wasn't. He was naked and she was armed. She could, in an instant, tear him to bits. He could not withstand her without his armor and weapons—and possibly not even then.

If she was going to kill him, he'd be dead already.

"It was easy to forget me the first time, Sherry, but it won't be so easy to forget the next time."

"It wasn't easy at all, Alistair. When Loghain-"

"Fuck Loghain," he interrupted her. Red rage boiled up into his mind, shooting across his vision and slamming his heart into stunned silence. "Maybe I'll make you forget HIM this time."

He jerked her against him and kissed her, the coldness of her body doing nothing to cool his rage.


	52. The Pond

**52. The Pond**

Tags for sexual content: [m/f] [reluctant] [virginity-male]

Alistair's kiss was different. It was clear that he had little knowledge of what to do, unlike Loghain's practiced and polished kisses. Yet in Alistair there was a primal, instinctual seeking that took her breath away.

She pulled away, not because it was unpleasant—for it was not—but because of the anger, the force, even the fury behind the kiss. He looked so much like the man in her dreams now, though this time he wore a full goatee. A man humble and easy to laugh. Genuine and gentle and quick to smile.

This was a dominating, instinctive man, bent upon slaking his desire. She didn't know this man, though she didn't know the one in her dreams, either. She twisted back from him, but he pulled her closer, and she was closed in silken, heated steel. He was all hard muscle and uncompromising strength. The sword dangled in her hand, and she knew that it could bring her instant escape.

But the sight of a man's eyes as he bled into the snow stilled her, and she dropped the sword. Her body, unruly despite the discipline she inherently knew it usually possessed, responded to this stranger and his overbearing ways.

She didn't want it to be like this. She couldn't deny that she wanted him, but the rage in him was as fiery as the burning lust that slid through her as he held her against him with strength barely tempered by reason.

He let go of her lips, and unpracticed as his kiss had been, she felt turmoil rise in her—kissing him had felt right somehow. But he didn't let her go, didn't push her away as one might a traitor. He reached up to grasp her breast, with far more gentleness than he had kissed her.

He had not given up punishing her, though, she realized as he kneaded with a roughness that was entirely alien to the man in her dreams. He watched his hand for a moment before meeting her eyes. They were stormy, their golden depths turned dark and dangerous.

"I vow I will make you forget him," he growled, and she found herself dragged into the water.

"Alistair, please. Not like this, not..."

He gripped her hair and pulled her head back, their bodies nearly melded already in the warm water. He held her head back as he looked down into her eyes. "You were mine, Sherry. Mine! You left me there to rot while you fucked the one man I hate the most in the two worlds."

"No, Alistair, I-"

"Don't, Sherry. Don't waste my time with lies. I won't believe you. I have no reason to believe you. I don't believe you have forgotten anything, and I doubt you ever loved me. Words are empty, Sherry, when they are so easily thrown aside."

He silenced her with his mouth, holding her against him as he sank deeper into the water, until he could pull her legs around him. She tried to resist, but her efforts were feeble.

He pulled back and looked at her then. "Tell me to go, and I will. Tell me to stop, and I'll get out of the water right now, and not look back. It can all be over with a single word from you."

She stared at him, panting. She couldn't bring herself to do it. Every nerve in her body was alive, burning with his very presence. Whatever her mind had forgotten, her body and her heart remembered him and longed for him with a depth that she couldn't compete with.

He pulled her hips against his abruptly, and kissed her again. Then he reached down, and searched, frustrated, trying to find his way inside her. She considered helping, but somehow recognized that his male pride was bound up in the event, and so she let him search it out for himself.

The moment he found her and shoved inside, she felt a powerful surge of lust drive through her as hard as he drove into her. He was a powerful man, and there was no way she could forget it, as he grasped her hips, his tongue slashing into her mouth and plundering her even as he shoved in and out of her. The water sloshed around them, joining with the hoarse sound of their breathing; harsh, ragged, and desperate.

She felt him inside her, both a foreign invader and yet a welcome presence that filled her and stretched her. The angle they were at in the water caused him to reach deeply enough inside of her that she could barely think as his hips met hers. She wrapped her legs behind him, around his waist, her head falling back as he let go of her hips to hold her back and shoulders, better leverage to pump in and out of her.

The world was gone, and there was nothing in it except water and Alistair and the feel of him inside her body. His face was buried now in her neck, and she felt his teeth holding onto her, but it didn't hurt.

He slowed his frantic pace then, running his cheek up her neck as she leaned forward against him. Water lapped around her breasts and spilled over her shoulders, and his movement ceased. He turned and moved toward the shore, lying her down in the muddy bottom of the pond.

She thought to protest, but he moved inside her and she forgot to. His but moved under her heels as he began to work in and out of her again, watching her with narrowed eyes. Her nipples hardened again in the heated water as she stared up at him, this stranger who commanded her body and tore at her soul.

He held her gaze as he thrust into her again, a long, slow thrust that buried him completely within her. A surge of lust blew through her, and she groaned as it consumed her. He pulled back and she knew he was toying with her, punishing her.

She didn't care.

She forgot that she was offended. She forgot that she was lying in the mud in a pond. She forgot that she didn't know him. There was only that spot between her legs where they were connected, this golden man and his heated eyes that held her prisoner to the violent desire that was surging through her body.

She cried out as he rammed into her again, and his eyes glittered with predatory pleasure. She wondered at his discipline, his self control, while she wanted only to feel him go ever faster until the exquisite, almost painful tension in her found its outlet.

But he did not relent, his motions slow and yet demanding. She bucked and cried beneath him, until she was clawing at his back and begging without realizing the words were even leaving her mouth.

After an eternity, or perhaps more, it seemed he relented, for he quickened his pace until she could take no more. Her orgasm came on a strangled cry, and her body jerked upward, totally beyond her control.

He groaned and thrust into her as her body convulsed, and the feeling of him jerking inside of her as he filled her sent her back into another one. He slumped against her, and to her surprise, she found the weight of his body comforting. She knew he supported most of it on his own arms, yet he was heavy and she remained wrapped around him for long moments as they both panted in the aftermath of their encounter.

Then he lifted his head and kissed her. It was a hard kiss, unforgiving and bordering on cruel, even. Then he pulled away and stood, looking down at her with hooded eyes. He left the pond and picked up his clothes, his body gleaming in the sunlight.

"Alistair?" she felt uncertain, even embarrassed. His abrupt departure wounded her profoundly.

"You should get dressed. There may be some breakfast left for you." His voice was hard and tight as he spoke without turning to look at her.

Sherry curled up in the pond and wept.


	53. Preparations and Plans

**53. Preparations and Plans**

He walked away from her, fighting his guilt and shame. He hadn't meant to do it. He'd just intended to kiss her. That was all. A kiss, to remind her, or perhaps more honestly to test her.

But he hadn't expected her response. She hadn't pulled away. Her body had melted against him, and the soft moans she'd made had urged him onwards. He tried to satisfy his Chantry upbringing by reminding it that he'd offered to stop. She'd said nothing. That was agreement enough.

Except it wasn't. He knew it wasn't. She hadn't consented so much as he'd ignored her protests, telling himself that if they were sincere, she'd have punctured him with her sword and fled.

Because, after all, the sarcastic part of his mind reminded him, she so very greatly enjoyed killing. It was so much fun for her that she tried to grind her skin off after every battle.

He groaned and fought to keep the emotions assailing him at bay. He hated himself very much in that moment. His first experience with a woman—with Sherry—should have been a profound and beautiful experience. He'd turned it into something tawdry and brief. He hadn't done anything he was supposed to. No foreplay, no preparation.

At least he'd had the presence of mind to keep himself from getting off the instant he'd felt her heat engulf him. Templar training to the rescue. He snorted at the thought. It had taken everything he had not to lose it immediately... yet later on he'd played with her, feeling powerful and in control.

Altogether bastardish behavior. But then again, that was what he was. How unsurprised the Chantry would be to find him behaving in such a manner.

He arrived at the camp and found that there was indeed food left for Sherry. Sitting down, he stirred the fire. He ignored the others, neither noticing nor caring what they were doing.

"Oh look, he's brooding. Anybody surprised? No?" Maryanne said. "Me, neither."

"You don't know me," Alistair snapped.

"Yet, every time I've seen you, you've been brooding. Like a little chastised puppy. Adorable, if you're the bitch that birthed the puppy, I'm sure."

Alistair turned away from her and saw Sherry walking up the path. He looked at her, trying to find something to say to her. But she didn't meet his eyes, simply walking to her bedroll and beginning to wrap it up.

"So what's the plan?" Wynne asked.

When Sherry didn't answer, she asked again, more loudly, then called the other woman by name.

Sherry sighed. "I don't know," she answered honestly. "The best that I can think of is that we need to go to that Summit meeting. The others need to know Loghain's stance on morality, and I need to investigate the truth of some things. I heard a rumor that he's selling elves as slaves-"

"That's true," Wynne interrupted her.

"We'll need to get proof," Sherry replied. "I think I know where the slavers would be holed up. The problem is, if I'm wrong, we'll have wasted a day's trip. It'll take us at least that long walking, and the Summit is in three days."

"I kin take ya to your resupply station," Peep told her. "Ya'all can pick up horses there, and that'll shorten the journey signif'cantly. If yer thinkin' the Old Passage in Greenland, then getting the horses is a bit out of the way. It'll shave time off'n the journey, though, in the end."

"That's an excellent idea, thank you Peep," she continued cleaning up, and the others began to as well.

She still refused to look at Alistair.

"Doesn't anyone want to know what I think we should do?" he asked.

"No," several voices answered at once, and he sighed. "Well, I'm telling you anyway. I think we should send someone to Sherry's Walk and find out what the situation is like there." He crossed his arms and glared.

"That's actually a good idea," Sherry said. "But I have no idea which of us might be the best to do such research."

She still didn't look at him. His throat ached from holding back the apology he owed her, but still he said nothing.

"I should go," Zevran told her. "I can move about undetected. It's less likely for me to be noticed there, as elves are not shunned there as they are in Portsmouth. Provided that I do get caught, I can pick all the locks there, too."

Roaring jealousy blew through Alistair like a punch to the gut when Sherry looked at the white-haired elf and grinned. "Why do I get the feeling that that isn't actually good news, Zevran?"

He grinned back. "My dearest Sherry, you wound me. Why should I never need to pick your locks for any reason besides mere curiosity? I would never betray such a beautiful and charming woman."

"Zevran, you think that Wynne has attractive bosoms. I really find myself hard-pressed to believe you find any woman unattractive—with all due respect to Wynne, whom I'm certain was quite the catch in her prime."

"No offense taken, my dear," Wynne piped up. "And I suspect you're right on Zevran, as well."

"Ah, I do appreciate the vast array of women, my dear. But you are amongst the loveliest. And if you ever feel a need to be properly hard pressed, do come and find me."

Alistair's fist constricted, he wanted to hit the smug elf in the face. But the anger collapsed into heartbreak when he saw her wince and look away, her face a stark mask of pain.

But all trace of it was gone when she smiled back at him. "I'll remember that if I ever get desperate enough to stand in line," she sallied. "Now, let's get a move on. You can ride a horse until you're close in, then walk. You'll draw less attention if you walk in."

"Even less so if I sneak in," he told her.

"Indeed," she agreed. "Release the horse, and he will return to his home barn."

"That's a neat trick," Zevran said.

"They all do it, if they're kept in the place they were raised and treated well."

They set off as the sun sent impotent rays through the frigid afternoon air. Sherry walked quietly in the rear, following in the wake of Peep and his powerful horse as they broke trail for the rest.

Noticing her falling behind and realizing it was his best opportunity to speak to her, Alistair fell back as well.

"Sherry?"

"Go away, Alistair," she told him, her voice dead and without inflection.

"Wait," he said, gently taking her arm to try to get her to look at him.

Her reaction was swift, certain, and uncompromising. Her katana was against his neck and cutting into his skin before he realized she had even moved. A trickle of blood warned him that he stood on uncertain ground.

She looked into his eyes for the first time since he'd walked away from her in shame at his own behavior. "The next time that you touch me, for any reason at all, I will kill you." Her eyes were as dead as her voice.

Without taking her eyes off of him, she sheathed the katana and left him bleeding in the churned snow.

A shiver wracked his spine. If there had ever been a chance for them to recover from all of this, he had killed it that morning, and he knew it in that fateful moment. If he was wrong and she really remembered nothing of their relationship, he had destroyed a heart more beautiful and kind than any other he'd ever known—no matter her need for surface gruffness.


	54. Resurrection of the Past

**54. Resurrection of the Past**

As they walked, Peep stopped every hour or so to give Sherry the Philosopher's Stone. On the third such stop, they sat to eat lunch. As she sat beside Peep and ate, Sherry stopped suddenly, the chicken she was eating falling from her fingers and a surprised, childlike look on her face.

"Callbrith!" she said, nearly bouncing with excitement. "I left instructions with Callbrith!"

"Well, what was they?" asked Peep.

"I..." her brow wrinkled and her look of delight turned to frustration. "I don't remember."

"Have you remembered anything else?" Wynne asked.

"I... no. Well, sort of. They feel like memories, but they can't be," Sherry answered. "They don't make sense."

"Tell us anyway," Zevran told her. "You might be surprised. Once you didn't believe in magic or Darkspawn, you know."

She sighed. "You will all leave me here for the wolves," she groaned, "when you find out just how crazy I really am."

Peep wrapped his arm around her, and Alistair bristled. But he said nothing—he recognized that after the morning, he had no right. It was hard, though, to let the matter go.

"Tell us, lady. We'll 'preciate the story, even if it ain't a real mem'ry. K?"

She looked at Peep and then Wynne. "Alright," she finally gave in. "I remember things from my childhood. I remember the first microwave oven that came to our city. And when cellphones came out. Then you could sit on the beach and you could speak to someone literally on the other side of the world through video. It was a totally different world. Cars, not horses. Indoor plumbing everywhere."

"That's not all, is it?" Wynne asked gently.

"No. But the next part is even more insane. For it to be true, I would have to be... very old."

"You are," Peep told her. "I kin tell you that what ya just tol' us is true. Ya did live during a time when all of dat was commonplace."

"Ha! And I thought you all would think I was the crazy one!"

"I be serious, lady."

She stared at him for such a long time that Alistair grew restive. When he threw his chicken bone into the fire, she glanced at him and then looked at Wynne.

"Alright, well. I remember my sons." She nudged a ball of snow at her feet with a toe. "Alexander and David. They were twins. I had them after... well. I had them after an encounter I don't want to talk about. At first, I was going to give them up for adoption, but I couldn't do it. When I held them, I realized that I loved them and it wasn't their fault."

She sighed heavily, staring into the fire. "They died in the war. It came right after I learned how to prolong life. But they were dead when they were sent home to me. It was too late to save them." A tear ran down her face, then another followed. "I wanted to die. Life without them had been sad and lonely already, but when they died, I couldn't even live for their visits anymore." She bit her fist to choke back a sob. "My two little angels. Grown men when they died. I begged and begged them not to go, but they wouldn't listen. They were warriors for God and this was Armageddon."

She shook her head. "I'm too young to have grown children," she said softly. When Wynne pulled her into her arms, Sherry gave way to crying.

He wanted to be the one to comfort her. Once, he would have been. He wondered why she never told her about her sons. But then again, why would she have? That was something one might trust to someone she loved, not someone she intended to use.

He realized, aghast, that he'd said it out loud. Everyone was staring at him as if he'd grown two heads, except for Sherry, who continued to sob into Wynne's shoulder as if she'd never even heard him.

"And for what would she be using you for?" Maryanne asked. "So far as I can tell, you're useless, whiny baggage."

"Set me up as a puppet King and rule the area!" Alistair argued. "Use my family name just like Arl Eamon wanted to do-"

"She coulda ruled anytime she wanted to. A flick of her fingers and this whole region would have knelt at her feet. What did you think made her so valuable to Loghain? With her at his side, there would have been not a whisper of protest against him."

"The Thedans wouldn't have given in so quickly," Alistair said. "They would have-"

"Are you kidding me? They're in an unfamiliar world, ruled by another people. They don't have any real standing here. If your politics meant anything here, Loghain wouldn't be hiding in a militarized fortress, kidnapping Sherry to try to gain control over the area." Maryanne stood up. "You are such an idiot, Alistair. I don't know how you've survived this long."

"Wait," Alistair said, "don't tell us, this is the part where we learn that you've never had any friends."

"Oh, I can be friendly if I want to be. Alas, in your case, wishing to be more intelligent does not make it so."

Sherry stood up and walked abruptly away. Alistair hunkered in on himself. Peep followed Sherry. When she stopped, he held her and talked with her for a while, though Alistair couldn't hear what was said, they were far away.

"Why is she always talking with him? He's married," Alistair complained.

"Maybe because he actually likes her?" Zevran said.

"But doesn't hit on her," Maryanne added, and Zevran chuckled and acknowledged her comment with an inclined head.

"I like her," Alistair objected. He did! He really, really did.

"Funny way you have of showing it," Maryanne told him. "One would think you were trying to drive her to suicide."

The others turned and began speaking excitedly about Sherry's apparent memories. He sat and laid his head in his hands, wanting to sob, himself. He'd made a terrible mistake that morning, and being defensive and upset wasn't making anything better.

He wanted to cry. To just go off and curl up and sink away into the ground. He wasn't being mean on purpose, he just couldn't seem to control the things coming out of his mouth. He felt like he should leave, but he felt helpless to do so.

"Zevran? I need you for a while, please," came Sherry's voice.

Alistair wanted to jump up and tell her that he could help her. He sat still and fought the instinct.

Moments later, the sound of battle had him on his feet. But it was simply Zevran and Sherry practicing. Alistair sat back down and watched, his heart aching. It screamed at him to make amends, to fix the terrible mess he'd gotten them into before it was broken forever.

But he didn't know how, and he still didn't trust her. Maybe he didn't know why she was pretending, but that didn't mean she wasn't, did it?


	55. Peep's Retribution

**55. Peep's Retribution**

They reached the resupply station without incident. Everything there was in order, and Sherry asked for news of what was happening in the area. Loghain had put a reward out for them, a quite substantial one, and Sherry wondered aloud where and how he'd gotten the gold to do so—but said no more on the subject.

Jesse was still in control of Sherry's Walk, but there were problems, though the rumors about that were rampant and many. Sorting out the truth from the rumors would be impossible without a closer look.

Sherry hugged Zevran as he rode away toward the compound, and Alistair looked away, feeling ashamed to even feel the jealousy he couldn't stop. Sherry still didn't look at him, at any point in time.

All in all, it was depressing and left him too much time to think on his shame.

They stopped still after they left, still without any new revelations. As evening approached, they found a camp in an ancient, abandoned building. Settling in beside the fire, Wynne asked Sherry to tell them about her stay with Loghain.

Alistair wrapped his cloak around him and stood outside of the building, listening. But the story was compelling, and eventually, he couldn't hold himself aloof anymore. He sat down beside the fire, out a ways from the rest of them.

"One of the prisoners had tried to escape again. We turned the corner and it was Alistair. He called my name, but I didn't know him."

"You must have felt something," Wynne commented. "You were very much in love before Jesse took over."

Sherry's face grew red, and she glanced at him. Then she lifted her chin and her blue eyes grew as hard as ice and twice as cold.

"I felt nothing," she answered, looking back into the fire. The words were clipped, sharp, and hard.

The group grew quiet, silence filling the small structure, punctuated only by the popping of the fire.

"Anyway," she continued after a moment, her voice settling into a distant drone to Alistair.

He felt like he had been stabbed. Somehow, he doubted that it was true. The look on her face had put the lie to her words. Yet the fact that she was willing to say them told him that he had passed a certain threshold in her mind. For a stranger, she would feel pity and not say it. For someone who had crushed her and toyed with her in the pond, she would have none.

He ran his hand down his face, trying to wipe away his shame. It didn't help, of course.

Finally, too hot now in his cloak, he stepped out. "I'll take first watch," he told them. "I'll be over by that knot of pines."

They ignored him, chatting amongst themselves. He sighed.

Around midnight, he woke Peep for his watch. He stoked the fire and laid down, not in the least bit sleepy. Peep climbed the crumbling stone steps up to the top. There, he sat where he could see the surrounding area, as well as the fire.

It seemed an eternity of sleeplessness later when Alistair heard the soft sound of Sherry muttering in her sleep. Soon the sound changed, and she began to cry, soft, gasping sobs.

He heard Peep slip quietly down the stairs, and saw his form moving in the gloom. "Shh, little girl. Shhh." he said softly.

Sherry sat up with a gasping cry. "Peep," she said, and Alistair watched her fall into the large man's embrace.

"Come on up here with me, little girl," Peep told her, and wrapped a cloak around her shoulders as she slowly stood. When they got to the top of the stairs again, he sat back down, and she huddled beside him. "Tell Peep what the matter is."

"It's crazy. I'm crazy. I was dreaming, and everything was different."

"What was you dreaming, little girl?" Peep asked her, his voice pitched as low and quiet as hers, so that Alistair had to strain to hear.

"Alistair," Sherry whispered so softly that he wasn't sure he'd heard her right. She took a shuddering breath that was actually louder than his name. "He was burned. Terribly burned. Lying in a field of early rye." She took another gasping breath, and Alistair realized she was fighting tears. "But he can't have been burned. Burn scars don't heal, Peep. Ever. Not even with the best surgeons."

"Neither does brain trauma so bad dat you forgot yer entire life, and yet—here ya are."

"How, Peep? How is it possible?" She sighed deeply. "His pain must have been catastrophic."

"At first, certainly. But not with'n you there. Ya wouldn't leave him in pain, Sherry. Ya got yer ways of fixin' things and helpin' people. He prolly spent most of the first months of it sleepin'."

"How could anyone do that?" Sherry said, her whisper strained by suppressed sobs. "That's impossible!"

"It is now. But ya got yer ways. You saved my boy from death. Tis why I'm here. Cause he maked me promise to do anything at all ta help ya, if you'd heal 'im. And ye did, Sherry. Ye did. I owe ya everythin' and so does Alistair. He just too stupid and emotional ta recognize it."

She broke down then, and Alistair huddled in his bedroll, miserable. How quickly one forgot, he thought. Forgot that she had given so much to heal him. His body showed no effects from the burns, and he'd let himself forget her care and diligence in restoring him so fully.

"I think I hate him," she said, sniffling.

"Nah, ya don't hate him. If ya did, you'd send 'im away."

Alistair looked up, surprised to find an ally of sorts in such a strange place. Peep didn't even know him.

"I should, after this morning." Her voice had lowered again until Alistair could barely hear it. His stomach tightened and he felt a tear fall unbidden.

"What'cha mean?" Peep's voice had altered, too, to a sound near alarm.

"He came down to the pond while I was bathing, and we-"

"Did he hurt you?" the demand was louder than the previous whispers, urgent and sharp.

"No. Not really. It's just... he just walked away. He left me laying there in the mud and just... walked away."

"He must be a virgin," Peep said with a low laugh. "They do the dumb all the time. Takes a while to realize women ain't like men and they wants some time afterward."

"No, it was more than that," she said, and he heard her crying again.

"Did you want to do it? After the way he's been toward you, I wouldn't expect..." He grew silent for a moment, and Alistair looked up to see him lifting her face. "Ye said no, didn't ye?"

"Yes, but-" She was interrupted by Peep jumping up.

She grabbed his cloak. "No, Peep, it wasn't like that! I wasn't saying no to... I mean, it was just not right yet... Peep!"

But Peep wasn't stopping, wasn't listening. Alistair sat up, he knew what was coming—and that he deserved it thoroughly.

"You son of a bitch!" Peep roared, stepping right through the fire—leaping, more like—and grabbing Alistair's tunic. Dragging him up to a standing position—no small feat in and of itself—he slammed his fist hard into Alistair's gut.

Knowing it was coming didn't make it hurt less. Alistair doubled over, taking a right cross to the chin from a fist the size of a piglet.

"What the hell?" Maryanne cried, jumping back as Alistair narrowly missed stepping on her hand.

"I upset Peep," Sherry said. "I didn't explain things very well, and..."

Maryanne started to cast as Alistair's nose audibly broke from another fist landing. Peep stopped for a second, his massive hand pointing at her and stopping her mid-cast.

"You stay outta this! This here is man business! Ya cast one heal on 'im and I swear I'll take a strap to you!"

Then he went back to hammering Alistair. Alistair didn't fight back.

"You was wrong!" Peep yelled. "And you knowed it, but you did it anyway! What the hell is WRONG with your mind?" Another powerful blow hit Alistair, rocking him back on his heels. "Ya don't never," the 'never' was punctuated by a fist cracking into his ribs, "never," another fist, "never keep going when no woman says 'no'!"

He hit Alistair again, with so much force that he was lifted and thrown against the stone wall. He collapsed, unable to keep his feet anymore.

"Ya knowed it was wrong! I'm like to kill ya right fuckin' now! Ya git your god-damned head on straight, or I'm gonna do it!"

Alistair drooled blood and fought to breath. "I think you broke my rib," he said, groaning.

"Be glad I ain't broke nothin' more important than that," Peep told him. Then, to the women, "Don't none of you be healin' him. None of ya. He ain't dying, and he deserves more'n he got!"

"Peep, it wasn't-" Sherry began again.

"No. Ya don't say it. Ya don't stick up fer him. Ya said the word, and that's all what matters. This is man business, and he knowed it. He didn't fight back, Sherry, cause he KNOWED he done wrong. Ya don't heal him, neither. Don't matter if ya forgive him, he gots ta pay for what he done. It ain't never okay, and he knowed it then and he know it now for damned sure!"

Peep stomped back up the stairs, and the women looked at him in the light of the fire, crumpled against the wall. Alistair ignored them, groaning as he fought for breath.

"I really don't want to know," Maryanne said, climbing back into her bedroll.

Moments passed, and Wynne looked back and forth between Peep and Alistair. She lifted her staff and Peep's voice cut through her spell. She ceased uncertainly and then climbed into her bedroll.

Alistair tried to find a spot that was less painful than all the rest, or maybe less cold, or in some way could decrease his misery. He almost yelped in pain as something heavy landed on him, opening his eyes to find Sherry covering him with a cloak.

Peep barked at her, but she said in a low voice, "Even for you, Peep, I won't let him freeze to death. He's too far away from the fire."

Another thump and then he was covered in a blanket, and she stuffed a bedroll against his head to keep the heat in. She never met his eyes once, and he didn't speak. He knew he should say something. Apologize, anything. But the shame still burned in him, too deeply for him to get the words choked past it.

She left him and climbed to the top of the stone stair. There, she sat beside Peep. This time, Alistair was too far away to hear it if they spoke of anything together.


	56. A Woman's Way

**56. A Woman's Way**

The next morning, after a miserable, painful night, Alistair slowly sat up. He saw Wynne cooking, and was glad. He couldn't have cooked that morning, even if someone would have eaten it if he'd tried.

She muttered and scowled at him. But she picked up her staff and healing, as well as some amount of injury repair washed over him. She was improving, he had to give her that. Within a moment, he was fit again, in body if not in mind.

Peep grunted. "Shoulda let him at least get up first."

"I don't approve of 'man business'," came her tart reply.

Peep chuckled. "Ain't no woman what do," he told her. "That's cause women like ta hold grudges."

"We do not enjoy inflicting suffering, even should the other deserve it," Wynne answered.

"Better ta suffer quick at the hands of a man, than suffer the needling of a woman for the rest o' yer life," Peep told her, grinning.

"Easy for you to say," Alistair answered. "You didn't spend the night with a broken rib."

"Ah, not this time," Peep said. "But I had my turn when I was young. And there weren't no ladies around what could make it all disappear, neither. Still were better'n listenin' to the yammerin' of women."

"I think I'll burn your bacon this morning," Wynne informed Peep.

Peep looked at Alistair. "Ya think I should tell 'er I likes it better that way, or just keep quiet on it?"

"Not if you really do like it better," Alistair said. "Because then she'll give it to you raw."

He looked around, searching for Sherry.

"She out there," Peep said. "She ain't feelin' very chipper this mornin'. I would leave her be, was I you."

"I can't," Alistair said, then said it again more loudly when his voice barely squeaked out.

"Suit yerself, but don't say I didn't warn ya," Peep informed him. "She may not 'member who she is, but I sure ain't forgot. What you might not know is that she gots a temper on 'er. Now that you done been nasty ta her, you might just gets ta see it. If so, I'm hightailin' it outta here."

"I hear you. But I shouldn't have let this fester all day, any more than I should have done it to start with."

"You really should listen," Wynne didn't look up from the skillet. "She's in a very foul mood."

Alistair sighed. He couldn't let it go this way. Over and over it rang in his head, 'I felt nothing'. Even certain it was a lie, it still hurt.

He found her sitting beside a tree, and lowered himself gingerly beside her. "Sherry?" She gave no answer, so he blindly continued on. "I'm sorry. I was-"

"It's too late for apologies and excuses, Alistair. Leave me alone."

"I don't expect anything from you, I just wanted to say it-"

"You don't expect anything?" she rounded on him in fury. "YOU don't EXPECT anything? What right do you have to expect anything? You don't have the RIGHT to assuage your guilt by apologizing to me and pretending it never happened." Her voice was getting louder with every word. "You don't have the RIGHT to tell me that you're SORRY so that you can feel fine about it all again! I don't forgive you, Alistair. I HATE YOU!"

She jumped up, no longer speaking, nor even really shouting, but rather screaming at the top of her lungs. Afraid he'd offend her, he didn't cover his ears—but he longed to. "I don't know you! The first time I ever saw you was in that prison, where I was a prisoner myself! The next time I saw you, YOU CALLED ME A WHORE!" A second prior, Alistair hadn't believed her voice could get louder, but at the end of her sentence, she was nearly shrieking. Birds some distance away took to terrified flight at the sound.

"The next time I saw you, you left me lying in the mud again!" Her chest was heaving and her blue eyes seemed to practically spit real sparks. He could have sworn they were lit from a fire within her. "I don't KNOW YOU well enough to do anything but HATE YOU!"

She kicked snow at him, and Alistair jumped up to escape it. "You're SORRY? You're fucking SORRY? I don't know you, I don't like you, and I don't remember this great love affair everyone keeps telling me we had." She slapped him with closed fists, and though he barely felt it, he realized that it came from a place of terrible pain inside her.

Sobs wracked her body, and she kept hitting him. "You remember when I was burned," he said softly.

She stopped hitting him and stared at him. "No, I don't. That was a DREAM," she screamed the word at him. "A DREAM, utter and complete MADNESS!" She jerked back from him, stumbling and pulling the cloak up to keep it from tripping her. "I know, because I could have loved that man, but you are a monster!"

She fled from him back toward the camp. He followed, to find her wrapped in Wynne's arms and weeping.

"Told you," Peep said.

Alistair slapped his palm on his face. "I was just trying to apologize," he answered.

"T'weren't the right time, little man," Peep handed him a plate.

"Don't call me that," Alistair said laconically as he accepted the food.

"I'll stop callin' ya that when you start actin' like a grown up."

"Go fuck yourself," Alistair used a phrase Jesse was fond of using on him.

"That's the spirit!" Peep slapped him on the back, nearly choking him, and returned to his food.

When they rode out again, Alistair avoided Sherry, though it wasn't hard since it was obvious that she was avoiding him as well. Finally, he found himself riding beside Wynne.

"I've ruined everything, haven't I?" he asked.

"I really doubt that," came the surprising answer. "She loves you enough to scream at you. That's something."

"That makes no sense at all," he scowled at her.

"It's a woman thing, Alistair. We don't bother to scream at men we hate."

"That makes even less sense," he replied.

"Would you beat senseless a man you cared for, for pushing himself on a woman, or would you just kill him?" she inquired.

"Beat him senseless," Alistair replied.

"Why not kill him?"

"Because he's my friend," Alistair answered. "Maybe he can learn and not do it again."

"And that's why women scream at you instead of just leaving you, Alistair."

"Oh." He pondered it for a moment, "It still doesn't make sense."

"Of course not, dear. You're a man."

He sighed and dropped the subject.


	57. Slave Train

**57. Slave Train**

Sherry called a halt. They stopped and looked at her. "I'm going to scout," she told them. "There will be sentries."

"Are you sure?" Peep asked.

"You're going scouting?" Alistair asked her, alarm on his face.

"Yes, I'm sure. Yes... scouting."

"Alone?" Alistair sounded alarmed.

She gave him the coldest glare she could manage, given that he was looking boyishly terrified at the moment. "Yes, alone. Are you going to come with me and make sure that everyone within a five mile radius hears is? Is that your grand plan?"

"But...you're...well..." he touched his head and stared at her. "You know!"

Maryanne said, "Oh boy, here we go. Should have known. We need a sign: Alistair is speaking, trouble ahead."

Sherry crossed her arms and pointedly ignored Maryanne to continue glaring at Alistair, who started squirming in his saddle. "Think very carefully before you answer this, Alistair," she warned him. "Are you trying to insinuate that people with amnesia are stupid?"

"No," he objected. "I was just-"

"Are we fools?"

"No, of course not-"

"Are we careless?"

"I didn't say that!"

"Then what exactly, are you trying to say, Ser?"

"It's just. You know. You're not well."

"Alistair, I was fortunate enough to forget you... but that doesn't mean I have forgotten how to sneak around in the forest." She mounted and turned to Peep. "Tie him up if you have to. The last thing we need is him clanking around trying to 'protect' me." She clicked twice at her horse, thumping the gelding smartly in the ribs.

The shadows were stretching across the land when she returned—still mid afternoon in the foothills of the Appalachians. She rode back in on a lathered gelding, pulling him to a stop.

"We need to hurry. They're bringing in a wagon train of elves. They're some distance away, but if we can apprehend that train before it arrives, we can likely save the elves on it."

The others scrambled to get themselves together. With as much haste as they could manage, they were dressed in their battle gear. There was little time for niceties, so the women helped the men get geared up in their plate armor, though Peep's was simpler than Alistair's.

Strapping on one of the deadly bracers, Sherry told him, "You know, someday, you're going to hit Misty with one of these and he's going to throw you."

Peep chuckled. "Happened before. He broke mah arm for the mistake. Never done it since."

"He's quite a fighter," she told him.

"Yeah," Peep answered. "Tis a sad world indeed when a noble, gentle beast like Misty has to learn how to kill."

Their eyes met, and Sherry smiled sadly. "It is, indeed, Peep."

They mounted again, and Sherry walked the gelding for the first mile, then clicked her tongue to hasten him a bit. But the snow was deep, so she didn't push him.

"It's foolhardy to be moving slaves right now," she told the others. "Or, really, any cargo at all that must travel by wagon. Do you think it's possible he's trying to hide them for the Summit?"

"You know," Wynne answered, "that seems a likely reason. If we can find anything on the wagon that links them to him, we'll have the evidence we need."

"I think that moving them now works in our favor in another way," Sherry told her. "It shows his lack of regard for their lives. Not that that's a good thing, except that it will make it easier to convince the Warlords that their own well-being will be unimportant in Loghain's grand scheme."

"Doesn't it bother you to be plotting against him?" Wynne asked. "You were engaged, were you not?"

Sherry sighed. "It does. But I cannot deny that he tricked me. Nor can I deny the fact that he would stop at nothing to seize control of the area. Truthfully, his purpose could be considered noble, but... his methods are brutal and the only outcome possible is tyranny."

"You respect him," Wynne said, her eyes shrewd.

Sherry looked away. "I got to know him. He's very urbane, very charming, so long as you are compliant. He wants to unite the area, which is laudable. But when he feels he's not getting his way—which is in his mind synonymous with the 'right way'-he can be downright hard. So in some areas, I suppose I do respect him. But in other areas, I fear him much more than I could ever respect him. He's a leader, for certain. But what kind of leader?"

Sherry stole another glance at Alistair. He was hunched on his horse, apparently unaware of the conversation. She had expected some sort of outburst from him at so much as the mention of the other man's name, but there was no apparent notice from his direction at all.

Relieved, she focused on the task ahead of them. She had no idea how she was going to deal with the greater issue they faced. All arguments or problems with Alistair aside, she knew in her heart that Loghain would bring a hard and unhappy life to the common man and woman in New Hampshire.

But on another hand, guilt was also riding her heavily. She hadn't learned a whole lot about her own background—Loghain had seen to that—but what she had learned was that she had powerful, powerful influence in the region. She couldn't help but be plagued by the fact that she hadn't utilized it to improve the technology and the basic quality of life in the region.

What had happened that made her shun technology so much? It was obvious to her that she did, almost as a reflex. She felt that it was likely a result of her experiences with her sons, but that didn't feel quite right to her.

Behind her thoughts, though, a sudden awareness began to rise. She did know something important. She remembered now what her instructions had been to Callbrith.

With a jerk, she reined in her gelding so hard that he whinnied in protest, hopping backwards before she let up and patted him. "Vasser!" she cried to her companions, a fierce joy lighting up inside of her.

"Vasser? Jesse's lackey? What about him?" Wynne asked.

"No. Not Jesse's lackey. My spy! I told Callbrith to work together with Vasser to sabotage the compound's workings. I also left instructions for them to burrow out, so that we can get in, and they can access the surface without Jesse's knowledge!"

"So you remember Jesse?" Wynne's eyebrow rose.

"No, not really. Vaguely. I know he betrayed me in some way, but I don't recall what or how or why."

They turned and continued, Sherry leading the way still.

"He were in love with you," Peep informed her.

"Great. Just what I need," Sherry sighed. "It seems like everyone that's in love with me finds some way to take a crap on my head."

"Well, that's a lovely visual image. Thank you so much for sharing," Maryanne said sourly. "Now for the rest of the day, I'll have you and Alistair torturing me with that picture."

"Shut up, Maryanne," Alistair said, his voice betraying genuine anger this time.

"It worries me, Maryanne," Sherry told the mage, "that you would visualize that at all."

"You said it," Maryanne shrugged.

"Yes, but I didn't actually picture it," Sherry shook her head. "Remind me to tell you the story about how I was a dog in my last life. With suggestibility like yours, you'll probably crap your pants."

"Hmm, in that case, I'll remember never to ask you."

"You do that," Sherry told her.

"I shall."


	58. Slavers

**58. Slavers**

Taking the slave train turned out to be a short, but brutal fight. The speed with which the slavers was dispatched was surprising, until they realized that they'd had a significant amount of help.

When they attacked, the slaves reached through the bars of their wagons, seizing and tearing their captors limb from limb. Thanks to the presence of guns, some of them died, but most survived.

Sherry went to the women's wagon, the center one, and released the women and children first. Their pathetic, groveling gratitude was overshadowed by the way they were dressed. Even in the frigid, near-arctic temperatures, the women shivered, huddled in dressed that barely covered them.

Inarticulate in her rage, Sherry grabbed the gun from the seat of the wagon—a semi-automatic pistol—and turned it on the guards. She looked at one of the women, "Did they rape you?"

She shivered and shrank away from something she saw in Sherry's eyes.

"Did they rape you? It's a simple question. Answer me!" Sherry barked.

"Yes, Ma'am," one of the others said. "They raped all the girls."

Sherry looked down at one of the children. "Her?"

The woman seemed to shrink into herself further. "Yes, Ma'am. Her too. That one's her momma." She pointed at the first woman who had been too terrified to answer the question.

"Which one raped the little girl?"

"Alla them, Ma'am," the mother said. "Dif'rent times. But alla them."

Sherry turned and opened fire on the guards. Peep and Alistair dodged to get away, and the guard scattered and ran for the woods. Sherry shot low, then turned them each over one at a time as they lay screaming in the snow.

"Take the memory of my face into hell with you," she told them. Soon, they were all dead.

She turned around and walked back to the train, blood splattered and weary. "They'll never rape another little girl." She made the promise to the mother, who held her crying daughter.

Then she started releasing latches on the wagons. As if awakened by her actions from the shock induced by her fit of violent rage, others raced to open wagons and cover women in cloaks.

"You're not kidding about her temper," Alistair told Peep quietly.

"I heard that," Sherry told him from the next wagon over.

"Here," Wynne called. When the others had gathered, she handed Sherry a package of papers. "I can't read them, they're in English."

"They're signed by Loghain. They give these men the right to safe passage with their prisoners, and sets a price per head." She shoved them into her backpacks. "Well done, Wynne, it's what we needed."

"What are we going to do with them?"

"We'll take them back with us," Sherry said.

"I hope it's enough," Wynne said. "I do not want to live under that man's rule."

Sherry looked at the blood-splattered snow where crows were already gathering on trees over corpses.

"This answers one of my questions, though," she told the group. "Now I know why I never tried to take over this region, despite the obvious willingness to follow me. I have no patience for trials or for the trappings of law. I am no better than he is."

She turned and clapped boots to her horse's side, riding away to avoid their false platitudes. Alistair was right all along. She was a vicious, brutal, efficient murderer. But the part that most made her hate herself was that she wasn't sorry this time. These weren't men just following orders. These weren't helpless fodder in the cannon of madman. These were volunteers, men who wanted to hurt and harm and enslave.

She hated herself because she couldn't find her way clear to feeling regret for killing them. And better yet, for killing them in front of those whose lives they'd gone out of their way to destroy. It was unsatisfactory, revenge... and yet it was also comforting. Knowing your rapist could never find you was relief.

She knew it better than anyone.

"So, what did you mean by 'again'," Peep asked her, riding beside her as the train of wagons slowly turned in the deep snow and began moving back toward Portsmouth.

How ironic that he should ask her that question now, she thought. Of all the questions for any of them to ask, right after that incident...

"My sons were the product of a rape," she told him quietly. I was young, and I went out drinking with some friends. They ditched me at the park. There were no cell phones at the time, and no pay phone at the park..."

She realized it all meant little to nothing to him.

"I couldn't get help. So I started to walk home. It was late afternoon, so I thought it was safe. But he grabbed me and dragged me behind some bushes. He raped me and left me lying in the mud. When he left, he told me that I should hurry home before dark. After all, the loonies all came out at night."

She sighed. "When I found out I was pregnant, I felt like everything had fallen apart. I... I didn't think I could survive having the baby. But it was twins, as you know. And they were the best thing to have happened to me until that time."

She wiped away a tear. "The man who raped me got killed by a mugger a few months after it happened. When they showed his picture, I couldn't believe it. But I had lived in terror that he'd find me again, and I took Karate lessons and everything to try to protect myself. It was what led me into self defense, fencing, and later on sword fighting."

She shook her head then. "I'd explain more, but the rest wouldn't make sense. It barely makes sense to me, and it's my memory."

"So you kill them so their victims don't have to live with that kind of fear."

She nodded. "And to give them closure. When a person attacks and assaults someone else, they give up their right to life by their own choice."

"I see what yer sayin'."

"But you don't agree with it?"

He shook his head. "It ain't that. I'd kill them myself if you didn't. But for me, it'd be pure anger and revenge."

"There's a lot of that, too."

"I did notice," he answered. "You been holdin' onto that for a long time."

"It isn't that." He gave her a look and she said, "It really isn't. It's the empathy with those who are raped. I know their pain intimately, and it's like it's new each time. Especially with little children. And that they all..."

Her fists tightened on the reins, and she ended tersely with, "I'd have tortured them for that if I didn't know it would just terrify the elves."

"Yer a strange mix, Sherry Walker," Peep answered her. "Some o' the time, yer the sweetest thing I know. Then ya turn around and yer some kinda somethin' I don't recognize."

She gave him a tremulous smile. "I hate myself for it. The killing, I mean."

"Even knowin' they deserve it? Even knowin' they was hurtin' that baby girl?"

"Even then. Though I hate myself this time because I can't feel bad for doing it." She looked away. "There's always something, I guess."

"You was just faster than the rest o' us this time, little girl. Dat's all."

They rode on until it became too cold. Sherry stopped them and several of the elf men helped to gather up wood. When she returned from gathering wood, Sherry found Alistair and Peep in a heated argument with one of the elves.

"What's going on?" Sherry asked.

"They want the weapons," Alistair told her, a stubborn, angry look on his face.

"Well, of course they do. Give them to them."

Peep and Alistair gaped at her. "We don't know them!"

"And they don't know us, either," Sherry said. "They are as vulnerable as we are, except we have no women and children to protect. Nor have we just escaped the clutches of slavers to find ourselves captives of our saviors. Of course they want the weapons."

She picked a dagger up and tossed it to the man. "We mean you no harm, Elder."

He caught it and stared at her. "Yet you are taking us back to Portsmouth!"

"We are," she told him, not bothering to hide it. "For several reasons." She stepped toward him, and then stopped as he took a stumbling, frightened step back from her.

She stopped and held her hands wide. "Please, come reason by the fire with us? We hunted and have food to offer. For all."

He nodded, gulping and turning away. Soon the elves emerged from the darkness into the light of the fire. It was soon clear that they were ravenous. They tore into their food with indecent haste, and Sherry waited for the elder who had confronted them to finish.

"So, as I was saying. There are reasons to take you back to Portsmouth." She raised her hand to forestall the murmurs that ran around the camp.

"First, the people of the Summit must see how you have been treated. If we have any hope of preventing Loghain from taking control of this area, we must gain the votes of the Warlords."

"Warlords," spat the elder. "Men who serve only themselves will serve no king!"

"They will if they can be convinced to give up their sovereignty for security. Men's greatest dream is to live in safety and contentment with their wives and children," Sherry told him. "They want a good job, a secure life, and a steady source of entertainment."

"This is true. Is it not what we all wish?"

"Well, I personally could forgo having a wife, but it pretty much sums up the desires of all people." She grinned, then sighed and continued when he ignored her attempt at humor.

"We need your help. We need them to see how you were treated, during this weather. Also, though, even if you do not care which tyrant takes over here, it's the only place in the area where there is safety, food, and shelter from the winter."

"Then where were they taking us?"

"To a small outpost," Sherry told him honestly. "If you wish, I could take one of your men there tonight so that he can report the truth to you. From that outpost, you would have been sold—or allowed to die—whichever came first. Loghain wanted you out of the public eye, even at a loss of revenue. That, he can make up later."

"I believe you," he told her. "I don't want to believe you, but I do."

She smiled, a sad and pained smile. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"You are frightening, but you are better than the alternative," the shrewd old man said to her.

"I'm truly sorry that I frightened your people," she answered, her throat closing up from the knowledge.

"It is a good fear. To see your enemies fall makes you afraid of the one who felled them, but it also brings hope with it. I hope that you continue to live up to the hope you have raised within my people." He nodded at the small knot of women and children.

Sherry was surprised to find them staring at her in a sort of awe. She couldn't help it, she smiled. Although they were a different species, they reminded her strongly of her own sons.

In Ferelden, she said, "Would you like to hear a story?"

At their eager nods, she told them the story of Peter Pan and Wendy. Leaping up, she pantomimed the crossing of swords and the creep of the ticking crocodile as he chased Captain Hook.

When she was done, the aura of fear had left the camp, and the children slept soundly at their mothers' and fathers' feet.

The elves set their own watch, however. The adults were not as easily won over as the children. Sherry didn't blame them.


	59. Truce

**59. Truce**

Alistair sat watch, brooding. He'd ridden up to ask about making camp, and overheard Sherry talking about her past. He'd asked her, but she'd always said she wanted to let the past be just that—past.

But he understood why she was talking about it this time. He had inadvertently reflected an early incident in her life. To his surprise, though, she had seemed almost resigned to the earlier incident. Alistair couldn't fathom what it must have felt like to be raped, and then find out she was pregnant.

It must have been terrible.

He looked over where the group lay, huddled amidst a rag-tag vagabond group of elves. Why would she give the elves the Slavers' weapons? It seemed like a tactically foolish thing to do, to his way of thinking.

Yet they still lived. She had a knack for figuring out the best response in strategic and political situations. No matter her claims to the contrary.

If only he could get one thing right with her. If only he could go back and undo what he'd said, unmake what he'd done.

"You didn't come get me for my watch." He turned to find the object of his brooding standing beside him. Her cloak was wrapped tightly around her, and she looked at him with serious, quiet eyes.

At least they weren't angry and cold, he thought.

Standing up, he looked down at her. The moon caught her cheekbones and accented the thick lashes that shrouded her compelling, unusual eyes. She looked beautiful to him. This time, her eyes met his without turning away and she gazed at him and waited.

"You felt nothing?" he asked her, unable to stop the question before it came out. Trying to lighten the moment, he said, "You saw this perfect body in shredded clothes and you felt nothing?"

She stared at him for a moment, then her eyes started to crinkle a moment before her lip twitched. "The Grizzly Adams beard was... rather distracting." Her eyes sparkled with suppressed mirth.

"Ah, this Grizzly Adams must have been quite a handsome fellow, if merely his beard could distract from the magnificence of my physique."

He was gratified when she laughed. "He was rather homely, Alistair."

"All the better, then, for it's that much easier to appreciate perfection in the presence of ugliness. I will grow my beard out again immediately." He turned to go back to the camp.

"Alistair?"

"Yes?" He looked back to find her looking away from him.

"I like the old goatee best. You know, the one from before."

He couldn't help it. He risked ruining the moment, "The one you can't remember?"

"The one I dream about."

His heart fluttered, and he found he had nothing to say to that. He returned to his bedroll with a stupid grin pasted on his face—permanently, he feared. She dreamed about him! For the moment, that was enough.

Once again, he didn't expect to sleep, but soon found himself waking to the sounds of the camp rousing. The morning sun filtered through white-covered pines, throwing orange, gold, and lavender shadows across the land. His breath steamed and he shivered despite his cloak.

Looking around, he found Sherry in the midst of near chaos as she went about passing out more items from the wagons. Rich furs came out and were passed amongst the elves, and Alistair recognized that someone had just lost a fortune.

But they would keep the people warm, especially the children. He smiled. These random acts of kindness were so much a part of her nature that she didn't recognize them as extraordinary.

He was letting her get under his skin again. He looked back on all that had happened between them, and he loved her still. But yet, as he listened to her telling Peep about her life, he realized there was so much he didn't know about her. And he often didn't understand her motivations.

He went in search of Peep, and found him helping to harness horses to the wagons.

"Hey, how's it goin'?" Peep asked.

"I was wondering something," he told the other man. "You've known Sherry a long time."

"Yup"

"Did you know that stuff? I mean, did you know about her kids? About..."

He looked up from buckling a piece of harness. "Did I know she were raped, is that what yer askin'?"

"Not really. I mean all of it. Did you really know her? About her?"

Peep straightened up, finished with the harness. "No, I didn't know none of that. I had no idea she'd had kids. Nor that they died in dat evil war. Why you wanna know?"

"Why wouldn't she talk about it? Why will she talk about it now?"

"I don't know," Peep answered, his face pensive and distant. "Except what this has all softened her some. Thrown her off balance and killed dat confidence she had. Ya know what I mean? Before, she didn't need nobody, but now... now she needs the rest of us some o' the time."

He went back to harnessing horses, and Alistair realized that he was right. And in that moment, he also understood what had happened between Loghain and Sherry. Loghain had been the only one there to fill in that gap when she awoke.

Accepting the only help and comfort available wasn't so terrible. It wasn't so wrong. She didn't know, and couldn't have known that she was waking in a viper's den.

"I've been so angry at her that I didn't notice."

"Yeah, I knowed that, Alistair. But she too busy with tryin' to figure out her life and save the world what she can't be fussin' with your problems. You goin' have to be her lifeline fer a change, if you wants to fix anythin' you done broke between ya." He slapped the horse and walked past Alistair, he last words before he vanished behind the wagon only, "Time ta man the fuck up."

Alistair mounted as Sherry called for the move. Within moments, the entire group was mounted or on the wagons and they were headed back for Portsmouth. Sherry pushed them hard, but no one complained. Everyone sensed the urgency of reaching Portsmouth in time to prepare for the Summit before it was ended.


	60. Portsmouth

**60. Portsmouth**

When they arrived in Portsmouth, Sherry didn't make any attempt to hide the fact that she was entering the gates with a massive train of armed elves. If anything, she went out of her way to encourage them to show their weapons and to make clear their piteous state.

She changed clothes, taking one of the dresses from one of the wagons, the same that had been laden with furs for sale. One of the elves quietly offered to do up her hair, and she did not refuse.

When they got there, they passed through the gates, and she was struck at how different it looked from the ancient city of her memory. Dirt streets teeming with horses and wagons and miserable people took the place of cars and bright street signs in every color and description.

But this was the world now, and she was resigned to it. It was not her place to change it, and in her heart, she knew it. She knew, too, that she had been grooming someone for that purpose, and she knew that he'd be here.

She had asked it of him when she still had presence of mind.

Most of it was back now, with some gaps. Mainly, sadly enough, around the compound that had been her home before Loghain had attempted to use her. She had enough memory though, to remember some of the more important things.

Including recognizing Jesse as he arrogantly strode into the gates around the fortified prison. He was flanked by his lackeys—including her spy. She smiled. She'd like to be a fly on the wall for that conversation, when he saw Loghain and found out that Loghain had tried to steal his prize.

The group ignored the commotion as the slaver train arrived, which worked to her advantage.

Leaping down, she greeted some of the local politicians and a couple of the Warlords who had already arrived.

"Darren, how nice to see you," she said, attempting to put on her best 'gracious hostess' face. She smiled at him as he kissed her hand.

"I must confess, Sherry, that I didn't expect to see you here. Certainly not in such an... odd... company."

"Ah," Sherry answered, "these are elves that Loghain had sold into slavery. We intercepted them and liberated them."

"Slavery?" he frowned. "This is a very serious accusation, Sherry. Can you back it up?"

She pulled the papers from the inner pocket of her cloak and handed them to him. He read them, then whistled low and handed them back to her. "Inventoried and everything," he said. "Very sloppy."

"Loghain is, if nothing else, an excellent bureaucrat."

"Sherry, I've never heard you be so insulting before," Darren laughed.

"Alas," Sherry told him, wrapping her arm around him and pulling him toward the prison gates. "I've had too few occasions to show you my better side. Shall we go and see what sort of food Loghain has to offer? I'm sure that after selling all of these people, he can no doubt afford quite a luxurious table."

"Indeed," Darren agreed, but there was cold steel laced through his voice.

Sherry smiled. That was one firmly in her camp.

Sherry waved back towards the slaver train, "See them settled and I shall return," she called to Peep. He nodded at her, pulling Alistair back when he started to follow.

When she got inside the prison, Sherry felt her stomach doing dangerous flip-flops. Her katana was at her hip, amidst the multitudes of other people who also carried swords openly. Yet despite its familiar and comforting presence, she still feared Loghain would break the promised "sanctuary" of the Summit and attack her.

He looked up when she entered the mess hall, now decked out in banners and lined with tables covered with foods. His gray eyes met hers across the great hall, and she felt her stomach quiver again.

He was, despite his failings, a compelling and handsome man still.

He rose and walked toward her, until he stood in front of her. "It was brave of you to come," he told her.

"Really?" she asked. "Have I something to fear from being here?"

Loghain looked at Darren, standing a foot or so behind her. "Of course you don't. But I feared you might think you did." He reached out and took her hand, kissing it lightly. "It's good to know that you recognize that you can trust me to keep my word of sanctuary."

Sherry bristled, irritated that he was turning her presence to his advantage despite the fact that there should have been none.

"I trust others to protect me from your treacheries, Loghain."

"Ah, you wound me, Sherry. Have I ever lied to you?"

"Of course you have. When I lost my memory, you exploited it to claim we were engaged," she answered, just as smoothly. "That's a lie if I've ever heard one."

"Was it so bad, then... being engaged? If so, why do you still wear my ring?"

"One does not wish to lose the proof," she answered. But she knew he had a valid point, and her answer was not as valid as the question.

"Come, eat. You must be famished after all that riding." He turned away, then back. "Surely you will grace the main table with your presence? I will not harm you."

"I think not," she responded.

"Very well." He bowed, a courtly, sweeping bow, and returned to the head table.

"Well, that was deliciously tense," Darren said with a chuckle.

"It will be better, I'm sure, at the Summit meeting."

"Likely."

They sat down to eat, and soon were joined by Alistair, Peep, Wynne, and strangely, Zevran.

"Maryanne has business and does not wish to enter Portsmouth," Wynne told her.

Sherry nodded. Maryanne was considered by most in the area as a fugitive. Since she wasn't a member of the political arena, she wouldn't have the promise of sanctuary that Sherry possessed. Though since the coup by Jesse, even Sherry's status was questionable. A fact of which she was extremely aware.


	61. Politics Gone Rogue

**61. Politics Gone Rogue**

The next day was the Summit. A deep blanket of snow had fallen, and continued to fall. The world was bathed in white. What wasn't covered in snow was turned gray or white by the falling snow. But inside, there was hot cider, burning fireplaces, and the complexity of political maneuvering.

Alistair stood miserably as Sherry continued to speak to the members of the Summit. The conversation had been forcibly turned to him by Loghain, who had interrupted her turn for discussion.

"Yes, Loghain. Do let's speak of Alistair now. You've made it very clear that you want him dead," she answered. "Here, we must share our world with those from Thedas. Most of us have done so, making open our homes and our halls for the presence of those from your world.

"But you ask us to take up a custom that is openly reprehensible to many of us. As Americans, we still believe in, and maintain the Constitution of the United States as our highest law. The Constitution states that every person has the right to life. There are only limited circumstances under which that right may be taken away...

"And I ask all of you here, even those of you from Thedas... do you truly believe that Alistair must die? A man whose ONLY CRIME is that he is the brother to the man that Loghain had killed so that he might take over the throne? No trial, no wrongdoing on his part, simply being the blood of someone Loghain does not want as competition?"

Murmurs rose around the room, and Alistair was surprised to find that of those he could overhear, sentiment towards Loghain was turning rapidly from the earlier rosy picture the man himself had painted.

"And I ask you as well," Sherry continued, pacing the floor and shouting to the assembled, "if you truly believe that our country is best served by a ruler who believes, and I quote Loghain himself, 'Morality is a luxury that kings cannot afford'?" She swept back toward him. "Do you really believe that uniting under the banner of a man who committed treason against the Crown in Thedas, is best for our country? Is it right, I ask you, that a man who sent the Gray Wardens into battle against the Darkspawn and then ABANDONED THEM THERE so that there were only TWO left in all of Ferelden, should run New Hampshire-Maine?

"Do you desire to have a man commanding you who sent his own men to take advantage of the Darkspawn attacks on Sherry's Walk in order to steal it and install his own man?" When sounds of shocked protest began to spread, she lifted her hand to forestall it.

"And I warn you of this, as well. While using the Darkspawn to spread his treachery, Loghain denies the threat of them! He claims that it is a simple task to be rid of them. Who among you has managed to stem the tide?" She looked around the room. "They are a plague, and I promise you that they will not stop coming. I have seen the Archdemon, and he has sworn to take over Earth until everything on it is subjugated!"

A voice interrupted her, "How do you know? Your memory is gone, isn't it?"

"I have regained most of it," she replied. "It's know that this is possible. Sometimes the trauma of an event is so great that it blacks the mind out, but with time, the memory returns. I remember clearly my meeting with the Archdemon, and his desire to hold me in the pit, a pit which many would call hell. Yet despite this, Loghain denies the beast's presence!

"Now, my friends," she continued, "consider for yourselves, whether or not you feel that a man who would exploit the memory loss of a woman for his own gain, lying to her and lying to you, claiming the engagement was mutual... is truly what you seek to lead and guide you and the future generations of our region."

She paused, took a deep breath, and then continued, "And last, but not least, I beg you to consider the elves and their plight. He told you that he intended only to segregate them for your own good. And yet... he has been selling them as slaves! Is SLAVERY what we want for our future? Has it not destroyed enough yet?" She held up the inventory notes from the slavers, "Here is proof of his trafficking in elves!"

Absolute pandemonium erupted in the room. Thedans and Earthers alike were shouting in anger. The man at the head of the room, Justice Pontrick, shouted, "SILENCE!"

His deep voice reverberated around the room, bringing silence to the assembled.

"I will hear your decisions," he demanded. "You have heard the arguments. Each has had the turn to speak as the law requires. Fill out your ballots!"

Moments later, after what seemed an eternity, the ballots were read, "Loghain has gained three votes. The other fifteen are in favor of Sherry," Pontrick announced.

"No!" Loghain snarled. "I will not allow it. This is madness! You would put a woman with no memory on the throne?"

Sherry held up her hand. "I will not take the throne. I have other business, elsewhere." She waved toward an alcove at the back. "But I have groomed a leader for you, for some fifteen years. I have long recognized that the area was becoming increasingly unstable—and yet that more and more people were coming to me, beseeching me to lead you. This, I cannot do."

She gestured, and to Alistair's surprise, Vasser stood and walked toward her.

"If you are American, then you probably know Vasser already," she told them. "Ever at my right hand, he has been compassionate and wise nearly from birth. He will lead you, and I swear to you, that he can and will do so as your servant, not as your master."

"No!" Loghain said again. "We need strength in our leader, command!" He drew his sword and faced Sherry.

She said to him, "Shall we settle this with violence, then?"

"I will rule or I will die," he answered.

"Trial by combat," one of the Thedan politicians called. "It is how these things have been decided for centuries."


	62. Trial by Combat

**62. Trial by Combat**

An argument broke out, but Loghain didn't wait to see it ended. He lunged at Sherry, but Alistair was there in front of her, Peep and Wynne beside her.

"Four against one, then?" Loghain asked. "Is that how you show your fairness and equality, Sherry?"

"No," she answered. "It's you and Alistair. The rest of us will see that you commit no treachery by having someone cheat in your favor."

Alistair hefted his sword. He was going to enjoy destroying Loghain. It couldn't happen to a nicer petty despot, in his personal opinion.

Loghain circled and Alistair paced him, keeping his eye on the other man. The room fell into silence, a large area automatically cleared to avoid the impending fight.

Alistair waited, his Templar training, conditioning, and discipline keeping him from carrying out the anger raging inside him. Circling, the pair assessed each other. Although Loghain Mac Tir was a vaunted war hero, Alistair had never seen him fight, and knew the opposite was true as well.

So he waited, until Loghain lost his patience and rushed him—a small victory, but an important one. Alistair met the clash of the other man's sword with his own, landing a rough blow against Loghain's arm with his shield at the same time to send it flying wide.

Loghain leaped back, and Alistair was unable to follow through on the maneuver. They circled again, Alistair slashing roughly with his sword, hoping to draw Loghain into more reckless behavior.

For long moments, they parried and hacked, a sort of mindless, early training exercise. But Alistair was measuring his opponent's strength with each blow, and knew Loghain to be doing the same. What he hoped Loghain didn't know was that he was pulling his blows; not giving them his full power. Still, he was stronger than Loghain, unless the other man was doing the same.

But Loghain was showing some minor signs of strain, and Alistair started to push him a bit hard. His sword arced toward Loghain's legs, a sure way to get the man to lower his own guard. But Loghain was wise to the action and he blocked the low blow with his shield while trying to parry above Alistair's sword and land a strike of his own.

Alistair, not as experienced as Loghain, but well practiced with Sherry, easily deflected the blow with his own shield. But Loghain was used to practicing against Thedans, and they had their own individual methods of fighting, that differed from the Earther methods.

Alistair used the edge of his shield to skitter across the top of Loghain's shield and land a nasty blow on his helm that sent the older warrior staggering backward. Alistair's blood sang as he hefted the shield, waiting again for Loghain to return.

Loghain seemed to sense that he was being toyed with, though, and stayed back, out of range of the heavy shield. His body turned slightly, he hacked at Alistair, until Alistair let his own guard slip, dipping his sword too low for the parry, as if he were tired.

His feint worked in Loghain's favor, however, as Loghain used Alistair's own trick against him, slamming the side of his shield into Alistair's legs rather than his face, though.

Shins stinging, Alistair retreated, but Loghain didn't let him go. He slammed his shield against Alistair's, as Alistair protected his sword arm from the wall of steel. Once, twice, and three times the shield hammered against his own. Pain rang up his arm, into his shoulder, and through his body. Gasping, he felt the shield arm slip, pain coupling with the weight of the shield to drag it downward.

Loghain's sword slid above the lagging shield and Alistair was in too much pain to do much more than deflect it weakly. It screamed across the plate of his shoulder piece and flew wide—the only thing that saved Alistair from being beheaded.

Wary, Alistair pulled back, using his own shield like a battering ram to shove Loghain away from him.

They circled again, each eying the other with undisguised loathing.

Alistair generally reserved his War Cry ability for moments of extreme distress. When he was overwhelmed or near death, he would use the innate ability to, in the presence of extreme emotion, call upon the magic inherent in the environment.

But he broke from the usual, aware that he had little strength left in his shield arm, and that he was tiring rapidly. The bent metal of his shoulder piece had dug into his flesh, and blood was running freely down his bicep.

If it did not end soon, he would be too weary to hold off the Champion. So he brutally, viciously attacked, letting the magic-infused cry explode from him. Several bystanders were knocked backwards, falling on those behind them in crumpled heaps.

Loghain, however, went rigid, his muscles captured by the magic. For a few precious seconds, he would be unable to move. Alistair slammed his shield into Loghain's, knocking it aside and slamming his sword into the other man's belly with all of his strength.

Loghain rocked, but, held by the magic, didn't fall. Nor did Alistair's sword penetrate very far into the well-made armor that encased the other man. Unfortunately for Alistair, however, not only did the sword not penetrate far, but it had also become stuck, metal to metal.

Gripped by a rising fear, Alistair pulled and tried to release the sword from Loghain's armor, to no avail. Precious seconds ticked by, until Alistair did the only thing left to him; he put his foot on Loghain's breastplate and yanked the sword out with both hands, his shield held on only by the second strap near his elbow.

Leaping back, Alistair was barely in time to duck the slash of Loghain's sword at his head. Shield dangling, arm failing, Alistair was on the run, though he was gratified to see blood on the tip of his sword.

He couldn't dwell on it, however, as he had to work overtime to deflect Loghain's blows with both shield and sword. He backed in a circle as he was brutally battered, several times hard enough to bend his armor with a protesting scream of metal.

But Loghain couldn't keep up the punishing pace as his own injury began to make its presence unforgettable. Blood ran out of the hole left behind by Alistair's sword, and although he could still use his own shield, his sword arm was clearly effected by the loss of blood.

He, being more of a traditional mindset than Alistair was, had arrived at the commonly considered 'appropriate' time to utilize his War Cry. It echoed in the room, bouncing off of the walls as he shouted with inarticulate rage and pain.

For an instant, Alistair felt the familiar paralysis spread through him, but with a heaving effort, he shook it off, focusing on moving his shield arm. The instant that it moved, even fractionally, Alistair broke free of the spell and parried Loghain's shield blow.

Then, he did something that no Thedan warrior would ever stoop to, no matter the circumstances... he dropped to the ground and kicked Loghain's feet out from under him. As the other man fell, Alistair got the opportunity he needed.

Loghain tried to catch himself from falling. For a plate-wearing warrior to fall in battle was death. But Alistair had fought many times with Sherry, who had shown him that if he tried to catch himself as he fell—that was death. He had to take the fall and keep himself shielded.

No one had taught Loghain this elementary fact, and Alistair took full advantage of it. He slammed Loghain's unprotected stomach, driving the bent metal of his breastplate deeper into the wound.

Loghain cried out as the metal penetrated his belly, and shrank away. "I yield," he cried. "I yield!"

Alistair rolled away and regained his feet quickly. Loghain slowly rose to a kneeling position. "Kill me now and have done with it," he groaned.

"Wait," came a voice.

Everyone turned to see Jesse walking up to them. "Make him into a Gray Warden. We have one more-"

"I'll see you dead first," Alistair snarled.

"Maybe there is something of your father in you, after all," Loghain told him.

Alistair cut his head off and then sank to one knee, overcome by the pain in his shoulder and in various parts of his body that had been battered in the fight.


	63. Commonplace

_My huge thanks to Gwynedde, whose reviews totally rock! Thank you, Ma'am! :)_**  
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**63. Commonplace**

Sherry ignored it as Wynne Healed Alistair. She heard him fumbling with the plate shoulder piece that had been damaged, but she ignored that as well.

Sounds of political discussion was all around her, Vasser explaining the reasons both why the Republic of the USA had worked, and why it had failed.

"-must work together to secure the future of our children and grandchildren by preventing even the future establishment of a central banking system-"

She picked up Loghain's head, fighting her gag reflex at the act.

"-must in the future require reinstatement of State of Emergency status, rather than necessitating that the government remember to recall it-"

Walking over to his body, she knelt beside it, carefully placing his head beside his body.

"-The future of our nation depends upon each state governing itself with minimal interaction with the central government-"

Tears rolled down her face, as she carefully closed his eyes. She fought again against the urge to wretch.

"-it is our duty to ensure that such agencies do not arise. The intent was to protect the people, but bribes turned them into agents of the corporations-"

She pulled her cloak off and covered him.

Vasser's voice droned on in the background against the sound of questions and objections from the surrounding politicians. Sherry looked around, realizing abruptly that Jesse was no longer in the room.

She turned back to find her companions standing quietly, a distance away. Alistair was still fiddling with his armor, and the others were boredly listening to Vasser.

"Jesse is gone," she hissed at them in a low, urgent whisper.

They began looking around immediately, their faces changing to a concern to equal hers.

"Perhaps he had something else to do," Wynne began.

"Yeah, like kill us," Alistair grumbled.

Sherry almost managed a smile. If it was a bit feral and predatory, well... that was hardly her fault, was it?

"I wish him luck on that front. He'll need it to survive trying." She turned and slipped out of the meeting room. Leading the way, she returned to the room she'd occupied while under Loghain's imprisonment. There, she found the heaviest, thickest of her winter cloaks and put it on.

Sentimental, perhaps. Stupid, though, she was not. Without a cloak, she would die as surely as she would if she were naked. It also felt almost as if he were there, placing it on her shoulders.

He was easier to like when he was dead. She shivered at the thought, and walked out the door.

They reached the stables and set out. From her perspective, the Summit was over. They could argue as they liked with their new 'King' and begin the process of governance without her. She had done her part for the future by giving them Vasser.

She wanted to go home. The problem was, there was no 'home' for her to go to. The compound was no longer hers. Jesse had taken it over. Hooper had harmed it irrevocably. She could see faces in her mind, but not remember them.

As they mounted and left Portsmouth, she watched every nook and cranny. Every alley and every road was a spot for ambush. But the attack never came, and she breathed easier as the small group left the edges of town. They stopped to talk to Maryanne, who decided to keep going with them—for now.

So it was that Sherry found herself heading back to Sherry's Walk, heart in her throat and anxiety twisting in her stomach like hot, heavy lead.

They hadn't gotten far when Alistair's horse sidled up beside her gelding.

"You really did care for him, didn't you?" his voice was pitched low, barely carrying to her ears over the crunch of hard snow and the creaking of saddle leather hardened by cold.

"I can't do this right now, Alistair," she warned.

"I'm just trying to understand," he answered her warning. "You didn't remember anything at all when you woke up?"

Suddenly angry, she turned on him, twisting in the saddle, not trying to hide her anger.

"You want to know what I remember, Alistair? Really?" At his scared looking nod, she continued. "Fine. I went to bed the night before my supposed 'horse accident' as an older woman. I was fifty-two years old. I had just gone to a three-D showing of a movie that day with my first grandchild. I went to sleep after listening to a meditation CD on my Ipod."

"What's a movie-"

She cut him short. "That's exactly my point, Alistair. I went to bed as an older woman. I woke up in the Twilight Zone-" she forestalled him before he could ask the question he was obviously about to blurt out, "No, it doesn't matter what the Twilight Zone is, either. Just let me speak!

"I went to bed on a day when I had been to a movie and used and Ipod. I woke up in world where nobody knows what a movie is. No one has ever seen an Ipod. I lived every day of my life with indoor plumbing, with television sets and microwaves and the stench of civilization all around me. I woke up in a world with no plumbing of any kind at all. A world where food is eaten cold, or even raw, or you have to wait around for it to cook.

"But that's not the best of it, Alistair. I went to bed with two sons. I woke up in a strange place, with no family at all. I went to bed with a grandbaby. I woke up with nothing. I went to bed in pajamas and woke up in chains.

"That's what I remembered, Alistair. That's what my nightmare in that castle was. And Loghain used me. I don't question that. Loghain cheated me, he lied to me, and he exploited me. I don't question or deny any of any of that. And when I saw you, and I saw that you had been tortured, I was afraid. I was terrified that if I didn't obey, I would be next. He carried around a big ass sword and I had my bare hands. I was afraid to rebel.

"Now, I get that I was a coward. I get that I could have saved you sooner. I get all of that. But I didn't know what was going on. I was trying to figure out how to use a latrine and how to wash myself with frigid water from a basin instead of having a shower, and still feel clean enough." She held up a hand to stop another comment from him.

"You could have done better. You would have done better. I get that, too. You hate me for supposedly pretending to forget. You hate me for not saving you. You hate me because I was supposed to see you, and fall at your feet just because I loved you back when I could remember who I was and where I was." She thumped the side of her fist against her forehead in frustration. "Do not presume to tell me again how evil I am because I felt affection for him and did not come running to you despite my forgetting you. Yes, I felt affection for him, Alistair. I cared about him. He was scary, but he was also typically cordial and he was doing a lot of wrong things for reasons which were really hard to argue with."

She jerked her horse to a halt. "I don't care that you hate me, Alistair. I'm tired of how much you hate me, and how much you want to punish me."

"But I-"

"SHUT UP!" she screamed it at him. She didn't want to hear it. No more excuses, no more reasons. "I'm tired of you demanding that I be the person I was before, when you're not the person you were before! And I'm tired of trying to lead you people around and make decisions about a world that has nothing to do with me! This is not my life! I miss my sons. I miss my microwave and my ipod and my grandbaby." She ignored the fact that she was screaming, and simply plowed on.

"You people figure things out! You deal with it! I'm done. Done. Done, I tell you, done! I want normal back!"

A familiar feeling rose in her, and a portal appeared to her side. "Leave me alone!" Clapping heels to the gelding, she steered him toward the portal. "I'm going somewhere that I'm really wanted," she shouted an instant before the gelding leaped in and its purple haze closed over her.

She landed in a heat so oppressive that it drove the air from her lungs. The gelding screamed once, and she was appalled to find him being literally eaten alive... by squirming, gleeful Darkspawn.


	64. Meltdown

**64. Meltdown**

Before she could draw her katana, she was seized from above. A massive claw plucked her from the falling body of her mount, dangling a Hurlock from one leg and a Shriek from the other.

"Sherrryyy..." a voice purred in her mind. "I knew you would come. I admit my impatience, but now you are here."

Her awareness quailed at what she saw looming over her, holding her like a speck in its claw. A massive dragon, dripping ichor and covered with wretched, horrific tears and dangling flesh; held her suspended. With a casual flick, he ate the creatures that were tearing at her legs, trying to climb her.

"Forgive them, my love. They have no manners at all. They are truly a trial to me, but they are useful and serve their purpose with mindless devotion. As you shall do," he told her. "But you will love me in a far more real way than they do."

"What are you?" she cried aloud, her voice lost in the tumult of a thousand thousand screaming Darkspawn voices.

Surprise registered in her mind, and then she felt agony tear through her as the beast above her began to sort through the recent events of her memory.

"Well, well, well," said the dry, slippery, sibilant telepathic voice of the dragon. "You've forgotten yourself. How very droll."

She felt him rise into the air and then land. She was laid carefully on a broken stone bridge, and immediately leaped to her feet, her katana in hand. Sweat ran down her brow and dripped into her eye, but she ignored it to circle him warily.

"You cannot harm me, Sherrryyy. Do you not realize that this is my domain? I can ssssquash you like you are nothing, if I so dessssire."

"Then do it," Sherry told him. "I'm over it all!"

"Yessss, you are, aren't you? Poor thing." His telepathy oozed with a strange, cruel sympathy. "We shall have to address that. But for now, really, put up your weapon. You'll be here for a long time. You are helpless to resisssst me."

She stood for long moments, shaking. But at last the heat sank into her and she could fight the urge no longer. Sheathing the sword, she let the cloak drop. It fell to the ground and slipped over the side of the bridge. She looked down, only to see magma slithering, mangled and monstrous along the bottom of a ravine, flanked on each side by a writhing mass. She jerked backward when she realized the writhing mass that stretched on each side of the magma's channel went as far as her eyes could see.

"Yesss, impressive, is it not?" the dragon's voice smirked. "They covet your position. To have my individual attention, to have my desire... it is a thing every one of them longs for."

"They're inhuman," she answered him. "Perversions. Filth."

"They are our children." He stood up and stretched like a cat, making the bits of dangling, lacerated, rotting flesh sway. "Yours and mine. We will be united in a way that they can only dream of."

Every part of her rebelled, sickened by the thought. "Never!"

"Really? Never? What if I could give you the secret desire you have harbored all of your very, very long life?"

"That would be handy, I'm sure, but I don't remember what that desire is. And I certainly will never 'unite' with you. You're an abomination. They are abominations."

"Ah, but you lie, Sherry. You have finally remembered that desire you suppressed. The ambition that kept you alive, long after your precious children died."

She looked away. She couldn't face the truth within herself. She couldn't speak to him for a long moment. "You cannot bring my sons back. You cannot send me back in time."

"I can send you back in time. I can. But I can do even better. I can give you more children. You will love each one of them as you loved your sons. You will hold them, and they will adore you. You will lead them, and they will follow."

"No," tears ran down her face. "Those aren't children, those are monsters! They don't love you, and they don't love me!"

"But they do, Sherry. They do." He flooded her with an indescribable feeling.

It was agony. It was a terrible, deep, gripping, horrific agony that screamed through every part of her. But beside it, intertwined with it, was a near orgiastic desire. A lust that both burned, and pleased. It was held up by a longing, a hope, a sweet and succulent hunger. A terrible heartbreak, a loss so profound that it nearly broke her mind came together with a sweet, exquisite, insidious longing.

She staggered as the feeling ran through her. "No!" she cried again. But a part of her remembered that feeling.

It was what she felt when they delivered the letter from the military. Her sons had died.

But this feeling, this crazy, deep burning feeling was different. With it came a sense of betrayal.

The same feeling she'd felt when she realized that Alistair had blamed her for everything that wasn't her fault.

Yet these monsters, these mindless beasts didn't feel that toward her or this dragon. They felt it towards humanity, elvenkind, dwarvenkind... towards "them". The "others". The ones who let them down, left them for dead, or otherwise didn't save them.

But she fought the feeling. Overwhelming as it was, it wasn't hers. It was fake, borrowed, unreal. She stood swaying, tears mingling with the sweat on her face as she felt their blazing hatred and incandescent rage. That wasn't hers, either. Was it?

The moment she asked the question and realized the answer, he struck. She was mentally pinned instantly. He bore down so hard on her mind that she stumbled and nearly fell from the bridge. He grasped her and threw her down, his talon creating a cage that easily ignored her feeble struggles.

"Now, we begin your training, my love," his voice slithered and snaked through her mind. "You will learn that there is pleasure in pain. You will forget anything else that you have ever known."

She lost consciousness and drifted in a world of his making. Terrifying images assaulted her, coupled with exquisite pleasure that put the very best of orgasm to shame. Images of her past, moments of love and beauty were dredged up, and with them came tearing agony. Pain so intense that she begged for death.

How long she lay, tortured by death, pain, and the destruction of all that she could still remember and hold dear, she didn't know. Time had no meaning in that place, nor did thought come from her own device.

She thought what he thought. She saw what he showed. She felt what he commanded. Every part of her was his, body and mind and soul. Her body was ignored, fed by the Darkspawn only to keep it alive. But her mind and her soul were repeatedly raped and violated in ways each more horrible than the last.

At each step, as the pain and the pleasure became mixed together, she believed she could take no more. That her mind and her will would snap at each violation. Yet she endured another, and another, and another in growing intensity.

Finally, she was awakened. She felt empty, drained. It took a moment to realize that it was because He had withdrawn His Presence. She sobbed, groveling at his feet.

His laughter boomed, growing and growing.

"Keeper," he whispered in her mind. "You will rest. When you awaken, you will take me to the Palace in Ferelden. You will give Thedas to me first. Then we will take Earth when we are done."

"Yes, my Master," she groveled.

"If you do well, I will love you," he told her.

A fierce longing rose in her. "I will do better than well, my Master."

He laughed again. "Oh yes, Sherry. You are a prize unlike any other. Do not fail me, my Prize. Now lay down and sleep."


	65. Jesse's Confession

**65. Jesse's Confession**

When Sherry vanished, Alistair tried to follow. But the portal closed behind her so quickly that three hairs, trimmed from the gelding's tail, fell to the ground.

"Darkspawn!" came the shout from behind him. The entire group whirled to find Jesse standing behind them, his sword out. Then he shook his head as if to clear it. "What the hell just happened? What was that purple thing?"

But none of them were in the mood to talk. Alistair's sword was out before he could think, and Maryanne had singed Jesse with a fireball before any of them realized her intent.

"Wait, wait!" he cried out. He dropped his sword and raised his hands, grunting in pain as another fireball slammed into him, zapping his uncovered eyebrows into puffs of ash. "Ow!"

"What do you think you're doing?" Alistair demanded.

"I came to talk to Sherry. It's about Sherry's Walk..." he peered past them. "But she's gone."

"There's nothing you have to say that anyone here wants to hear," Alistair replied, lifting his sword again. At the moment, he didn't care that the other man was unarmed.

"Wait! Think this through! Do you really want to kill the only other known Warden in the area?"

"Callbrith-"

"Is gone. He's been gone since not long after Sherry escaped."

Wynne cut him off. "Escaped from your rapist butcherers, you mean?"

"Now, that's not fair," Jesse answered her. "The rapist butchers were Hooper's, not mine."

"Semantics," Peep answered. "Let's kill 'im and git goin'."

"No," Alistair said with a resigned sigh. "He's right. We can't kill him, he's a Warden whether we like it or not."

"Well, we gotta save Sherry," Jesse told him. "I can help."

"Save Sherry from what? And why would you want to help, and why should we trust you?"

"From the Darkspawn, of course," he answered, cocking his head quizzically. "Whatever that thing is she just went through is, there's Darkspawn on the other side of it."

"No, there aren't," Alistair answered with a cold glare. "You are lying. Why, I don't know. But I felt no Darkspawn."

Jesse's eyebrow rose. "Curious. Can it wear off? Warden sense, I mean?"

"Of course not," Alistair snapped at him. "That's absurd." He hopped down and walked toward Jesse. "Back off." When Jesse complied, Alistair picked up his sword and slid it though a loop on his saddle. "Mount and ride. You'll stay between me and Peep all the time."

"Tsk, tsk, you don't trust me, Alistair? Your fellow Gray Warden?"

"Never," Alistair answered. "There's nothing on this planet that could induce me to trust you."

They rode for a while before Wynne asked, "So what were you going to tell Sherry?"

Jesse sighed. "I can't run Sherry's Walk. Everything I've tried to do has ended up in disaster. I realize now that it's because of Vasser the whole time. But regardless, the labor of leading it is just too much for me, regardless of the sabotage."

"It must have been a real kick in the pants when you realized he was hers all along," Alistair almost laughed.

"No more than it must have been for you, watching her crying over Loghain like that," Jesse replied.

Infuriated, Alistair had drawn his sword and spurred toward him before he even realized his own intent. Realizing midway that he was going against his own words, he jerked roughly on the horse's head, pulling him back to keep himself out of range of his rival.

Jesse rode on nonchalantly, as if nothing had ever happened.

Alistair glowered, his horse turning in restless, distressed circles. Finally, Alistair followed, working to control the rage running through him.

They camped that night, and Peep took first watch. When he roused Alistair, he got up and blearily made his way to the lookout post. Stamping his feet and huffing into the air to watch the steam rise, he looked out over the land.

Lit by a bright, low moon, it was eerie and yet peaceful at the same time. Distant lights heralded the city of Portsmouth, glittering in the snowy night. Quiet and peace reined, and the only thing he saw stirring was an owl, sweeping above the trees in silence.

He fought not to reflect on the dream that had plagued him just moments before. In it, Sherry lay stunned, incapacitated, over a fiery pit, with the Archdemon grasping her. He could feel horrible suffering coming off of her in waves, and realized that he was somehow connected to her mind.

The contrast to the beauty, the calm, the splendor before him ate at his soul. It was as if the whole thing were a metaphor for their relationship since Loghain had entered into it. He'd been in relative peace, despite his fear of the possibility of being executed. She, on the other hand, had been torn by fear, loneliness, and uncertainty. Tormented by it, no doubt.

He heard crunching snow at the camp and looked back. In the pool of brilliance that was the campfire, he saw Jesse sit up and look around. Their eyes met, and Alistair scowled. It did not deter the other man in the least.

"Did you dream of the Archdemon?" Jesse asked.

"No," Alistair said shortly.

"He was talking," Jesse told him. "I couldn't make out what he was saying, but he was definitely talking. He's pleased about something. Which strikes me as rather terrifying."

"Pleased? In what way?"

"I don't know," Jesse replied. "But there was a strong undertone of triumph and glee in the communication. Where-ever that thing Sherry went into goes, there were Darkspawn-"

"There were no Darkspawn!" Alistair snapped at him. "Exactly what kind of game are you playing here? Go back to sleep."

Jesse sighed and shrugged. "We don't have to be enemies, you know."

"Yes, we do. You turned me over to Loghain quite happily," Alistair reminded him.

"For the greater good of the people of Sherry's Walk," Jesse protested.

"No, for your own selfishness."

"Okay, I can't deny it. There was some of that, too. But I knew Loghain intended to attack. He agreed not to, if I could get his men inside. No bloodshed, no harm. Do you not think that's the best for the people of Sherry's Walk?"

Alistair sighed. "I think they should get to decide their own fate."

"Why? People are stupid, Alistair. They'll die to protect ideals they'll then never get to experience or partake of. Futilely. It achieves nothing but their deaths. So why not protect them from that?"

"Because it's their choice, not yours." Alistair looked out across the pristine wilderness again. "Go away." Then he added, "Preferably far away."

Jesse sighed. "I think it's important that the Archdemon is feeling so happy. You don't?"

"I don't know if he is or not. I only have the word of a liar on it." Alistair purposefully turned his back. He half hoped Jesse would take the opportunity so that he could kill him.

But the crunching of snow told him he'd returned to his bedroll, instead.

He sighed with disappointment. Pity, he thought, that the other man hadn't given him the opportunity to end the whole thing. Now he had to escort him back to Sherry's Walk and keep him alive—against his better judgment.

The next morning, Alistair was plagued again by the strange sensation of Sherry in terrible pain. But he shook it off, and followed the group. It was going to be a long trip at this rate.

"So you said that Callbrith is gone? Did you try to find him?" he finally inquired of the disgustingly chipper Jesse.

"Of course we did. He vanished into the depths. The Darkspawn have been tunneling there, and it has become quite the ugly fight. They say that he was lost down there, and although we sent a couple of expeditions for him, we could find nothing."

"A couple? That was mighty nice of you."

"We couldn't afford to throw men and resources at someone who can well take care of himself," Jesse snapped. "The good of the compound—"

"Yeah, I get it," Alistair cut him off. "You're a fine one to carry on about the good of the compound, the good of the people, blah blah blah."

"Listen-"

"Just shut up, Jesse."

Alistair wondered how much of the underground the 'expeditions' had gone. Had the dwarves done what was asked and tunneled out somewhere? Had the exit been reported to Jesse? It ate at him, wondering how much Jesse knew. Or what he might know and not be telling.


	66. Return to Sherry's Walk

**66. Return to Sherry's Walk**

They traveled quickly, and Alistair found himself in awe of Misty's endurance. The massive stallion plowed through the snow placidly, as if unaware of those blundering along in his wake. For hours at a time, he pushed on. Typically when it was time for a rest, it was because the other horses flagged and grew weary—despite not being the ones breaking trail, the most difficult part of travel in the snow.

Alistair and Jesse didn't speak, and the rest of the group seemed equally reticent to break the relative silence. The forest echoed with their passing, the pines lining their path like sentinels of some long forgotten realm.

The going was sometimes difficult, as they were not on any known road, instead following Peep's knowledge of the area. Often, low branches would block their way, and Peep would simply pull out a machete and hack at them while Misty stood patient beneath him.

It was a weary trip, in large part because Alistair couldn't shake the continual feeling that something was terrifyingly wrong. Something had gone horrifically awry, but he just couldn't place what. He kept glaring at Jesse, certain that must have something to do with him. This, in spite of the fact that he knew in his heart that somehow Sherry was the source of the pain, the dissonance, the screeching disharmony.

All around him lay the stark, harsh beauty of the forest, and yet he couldn't shake the feeling of darkness that hung over it all. The sun was so bright that it seemed somehow false or excessive. The snow crackled and snapped beneath Misty's gigantic hooves with an ominous and threatening undercurrent. Icicles hung like glittering, malicious fingers branches, grasping and clawing if one did not duck quickly enough.

The more the day wore on, the jumpier he became, until he was riding with his hand constantly on his sword and his eyes sweeping continually around them. Something was wrong. Everything in him screamed it, yet... the day wore on and nothing happened.

"Fuck, man, would you stop it? You're making me nervous," Jesse finally snapped at him. "What the hell is wrong with you? You're jumping at shadows."

"Something's wrong!" Alistair said tersely. "Nothing looks right. Nothing is right."

Everyone had stopped, even Peep turning in his saddle to stare at him.

"What?" he growled. "Don't look at me like I'm losing it. I'm not losing it, something is wrong." They stared at him blankly, with various looks of pity or impatience. "Damn it, I'm telling you, something isn't right! And whatever it is, it's big. It's beyond us, it's even beyond the Darkspawn."

"Well, delusions of grandeur. Congratulations, you've snapped at last," Jesse told him. "Can we go now? Snow's melting down my collar, I'm freezing."

Alistair's response was cut off when a voice from behind asked, "Where's Sherry?"

Alistair gasped in heart-stopping surprise and whirled his horse so fast the poor beast whinnied and stumbled in surprise. Before the turn was complete, Alistair had his sword out and his shield fouled with the reins.

"Zevran! Don't sneak up on us like that!" Alistair protested, his heart in his throat.

"But Alistair, you're so adorable when you're petrified," Zevran replied, leaning against a tree nonchalantly.

Alistair reached out and snapped one of the icicles over Zevran's head. The elf dodged easily, grinning widely.

"I see you still want to nail me. But alas, my heart belongs to the lovely Sherry." Zevran pantomimed, holding his hand over his heart and throwing the other one up melodramatically.

"Oh, shut up," Alistair sighed. "Come talk to me and tell me what you found."

They moved away from Jesse so that Alistair could interrogate him more easily.

"Well, there are some strange things afoot at the compound, I must say. It has been militarized even more than it was before. There have been more guns put up, and the dwarves seem to be running the place. With their usual suspicious efficiency, I might add." Zevran shrugged. "Not much else, really."

"Did you see Callbrith?" Alistair asked him.

"Of course," Zevran responded. "He's running the place. He and some man named Vasser sabotaged it until Jesse ran off in defeat. Pretty nice trick, too."

Alistair heaved a sigh of relief. "He's alive then, Maker preserve us. Jesse said he was lost down below in the Darkspawn tunnels underground."

"He was only lost to Jesse and his searchers." He deepened his voice and puffed out his chest, "'Ye can't find no dwarf don't want to be found in them tunnels, elf!'"

Alistair felt humor surface for a moment. But then he said, "We'll not mention that to the others, please. I don't want Jesse to know, and I don't want to take them aside and look suspicious. We'll wait to see what happens when we get there."

"Sure, boss. Now, where's Sherry?"

Alistair sighed. "Hold that thought. You got a horse nearby?"

"Indeed I do. I'll go get him."

"Let's camp here," Alistair said. "I know it's early, but I think Zevran deserves to know what happened with Sherry."

"You mean he deserves to know that you chased her off because you just couldn't let go of the argument?" Maryanne's voice was muffled as she slipped off of her horse.

"Go eat yourself, Maryanne." It was all he could think to say. It seemed to be a terrible insult to the Earthers. The soldiers had used it on him any number of times.

"You're supposed to say to women to 'go eat a'... never mind," Jesse told him.

But Alistair could figure out. Something men had that women didn't. Well, that was nice. He'd just said that in front of Wynne, who was a lady.

"Sorry, Wynne," he told the older woman.

"No matter, Alistair. I've heard worse. Though I don't remember when."

"Well, that makes me feel so much better," Alistair answered with a heavy sigh.

By the time he had finished telling Zevran what had happened, with much arguing and interruptions from the others, evening shadows had long since given way to the darkness of night.

Zevran took first watch that night, and Alistair's dreams were blanketed in Sherry's screams and images of things and times and places that he didn't understand. Darkness rolled over his mind again and again, and he slowly began to realize that it was Sherry whose mind was being blanketed by something dark and evil.

When he awoke the next morning, he was sweating heavily; dangerous under such frigid conditions. The others were staring at him silently, and food lay on a plate beside the fire. As he ate it silently, he tried to shake off the horrors of the night.

But the day still looked over-bright and the morning's rays did nothing to soothe the knots in his stomach. No one said anything to him as he grimly gathered his things and mounted.

They could not get back soon enough for him.

When they arrived, Callbrith trotted out to meet them. "Alistair!" he shouted. "Wynne! I knowed you was coming, but-"

He stopped, nearly falling in the frozen track in front of the gate. "You vicious dog!" he snapped, and drew on Jesse.

"Stop, Callbrith. He's one of the remaining Wardens. We can't kill him, or I would have already."

"Better to be just the two of us, anyhow," Callbrith snarled. "Don't need no traitor Wardens."

"I'm no traitor," Jesse answered hotly. "Sherry was to sick to keep-"

"Don't matter! You were taking care of things. She designated someone. She weren't just ignoring it! You done her wrong!"

"I did what I felt was best," Jesse calmly replied as if his anger of a moment before had never existed.

"What ye felt was best for you, maybe," Callbrith huffed. Then he turned to the two men standing at the gate. "Throw him in the cell. Ain't going to let him run around here free. The rest of ye should go get somethin' to eat."

Once inside, Alistair was surprised to note that the compound was clear of snow. Most of it was heaped up in the garden area, the rest was frozen earth or cleared pavers. Furthermore, things seemed to be efficient and orderly. People were walking purposefully back and forth, and the place seemed to be a hive of activity.

Dismounting, he gave his horse into the care of the stable hand, and gave the others a short "see you later". Then he headed to Sherry's house.

Inside, he found it surprisingly warm. So warm that he quickly removed his cloak and heavy gear. Walking into the living room, he noted with sorrow that many of the plants looked sad and wilted. He began to water them, and felt tears on his face.

The poor plants missed their owner as much as he did, it seemed, from their pathetic state. What had once been a lush green curtain in front of the window looked gray and sad. He poured water on them almost mindlessly, until he noticed a spot that looked like it had been dug up. It had once been well covered by the huge leaves of the plant it was under, but now the plant was stalks and some small, new leaves that were obviously barely hanging on.

He thought nothing of it until he watered it and some of the soil washed away. He noticed something poking out, and pulled out a jar. Inside was the red powder that he recognized as the Philosopher's Stone.

Immediately, he realized that Sherry had hidden it. He put it into his backpack, and then carried on watering the plants. A moment later, he remembered she'd said something about it being good for plants, as well. So he added some to the water and put it back.

Slowly, as if walking in a nightmare, he went down the hallway toward the bedroom. His stomach knotted and he pressed his fist against it.

Something, he knew in his heart, was terribly wrong. The plants, the quiet, the stillness, the strange warmth without any fire... it all seemed alien to him. Yet it was the same place he had called 'home' for quite some time.

But he couldn't shake the feeling that nothing would be okay again. Maybe ever.

His eyes drooped and he sat back up. He dared not nap. He had to find something to do, to occupy his mind. He got up and went out to the training grounds. There, he found willing trainees seeking someone to spar with. He spent the next few hours there, taking out his frustrations on the poor, unsuspecting trainees.

Eventually, though, he ran out of those willing to face him. Despite his incarceration, he remained a skilled fighter.


	67. Interim

**67. Interim**

The days passed, and Alistair and Callbrith argued with the others about what to do with Jesse. At last, Alistair allowed him a few hours a day to exercise. In the lists. With him. Mainly, though, because no one else was willing to risk his temper and his accidental use of too much force. Accidents that were both frequent, and painful for the recipients.

The nights for Alistair were filled with torment. Each night, when he finally fell asleep, the dreams would come. They were filled with pain and anguish, or with a sort of longing and desperation that he couldn't understand. A longing for something grotesque. A longing that would seize his mind with a sense of filth and misery.

As the weeks dragged on and on, Winter gave in to Spring, and Spring filled the compound with copious amounts of cold mud. Everywhere he looked, everywhere he walked, there was mud. Where there wasn't mud, there was slush.

The floors were perpetually dirty, the weather was perpetually chilly, and in many ways, the Spring was worse than the winter. Because he got wet constantly and the biting, vicious wind made the cold penetrate everything.

He grew wan and pale. And although he maintained his muscle mass with the constant bouts with Jesse, he also recognized that he was on the borderline of ill health. He walked around continually exhausted. When not from the sparring, he was tired from night after night of nightmares.

He was unaware that Sherry lay on Thedas, deep underground, in the clutches of the Archdemon. He knew only that she plagued him, haunting him both day and night. Often, he would find himself staring blankly at a wall or an open space—sometimes even a person—with an unblinking stare. The dreams invaded his days and tormented him.

His friends began to avoid him. He rarely saw Callbrith any longer, and even the ever-patient Wynne had ceased to try to draw him out. She gave him a severe tongue-lashing several times, trying to snap him out of it. He'd merely zoned out while she talked, haunted by images of his children chanting and pleading for him to love them.

He was so far gone by that point that it didn't even occur to him that he had no children, and the very thought made no sense.

But he fell further into the peculiar mindset that had overtaken him. He began to search for them. They needed him. They really, really needed him.

One day, though, he snapped out of it.

He was fighting with Jesse in the list, when suddenly the fog that had permeated his every waking—and sleeping—moment lifted as if it had never been.

"Whoa," he snapped at Jesse, who stopped, panting, and stared at him. "Why so aggressive? This is supposed to be practice!"

Jesse stooped, still huffing and panting. Leaning his hands on his knees, he said, "Since when? You've been doing your best to kill me for months now. You've come close more times than I care to count. We keep a mage here every time we fight so they can heal me when I get gutted again. Don't tell me that it's 'just practice'!"

Alistair gaped at him for a moment. But slowly, the last few months settled into his awareness. He had, indeed, nearly killed Jesse several times a week for months.

"I mean, man, I know you want me to pay for what I did, but I would hope even you can start to recognize that this is a bit harsh."

"Yeah. I guess you're right. Though I'm not letting you out of the cell," Alistair responded.

Jesse straightened up and looked at him closely. "You've changed."

Alistair shrugged. "I feel like I was under some kind of spell. It just went away. Just now."

"You've been acting like a zombie. It was kind of creepy. Okay, that's a lie. Totally creepy."

"Why'd you keep doing this, then?" Alistair asked.

"Because it was all the exercise or outside time I'm allowed, why do you think?" Jesse stretched and cracked his neck. "We done now?"

"Yeah."

"Great. I'm going back."

"Okay." Alistair turned and walked back to Sherry's house. The plants were flourishing again, though not returned quite to their former glory. Ripe tomatoes hung from the 'tomato tree' and he plucked some and ate them.

He headed back to the bedroom then, when suddenly a huge wave of vertigo hit him. He staggered against the wall, feeling as if he were being ripped inside out.

Sounds of alarm from outside ripped him from his stupor, though, and he felt health return. He turned and rushed out the door.

"It's a dragon!" someone screamed from the walls.


	68. Mine Life for Thee

**68. Mine Life for Thee**

Sherry had dreamed that night as she lay under her own auspices for the first time since the Archdemon had taken her mind. In her dreams was a golden eyed man, with golden hair, and a smile to melt the soul. The new Sherry, the hard, uncompromising, broken Sherry paid him no mind.

But the Archdemon had miscalculated. In his arrogance, he had committed a simple folly. He had tried to destroy her love for her children, but he had only noticed her fury at this golden eyed man. Because her love for Alistair had become tainted by forgetfulness, betrayal, and confusion, he had dismissed it. If he had experienced the feelings she had towards any creature or being, he would have snuffed out their life in an instant.

Thus it was that he did not understand, did not recognize, did not care for the bond that could not be severed by anger or even resentment. For him, such a feeling, such a thing, was impossible, and so he never considered it.

Sherry had dreamt, and in those dreams, Alistair had been as he once was. He was burned to unrecognizability. Then he healed over time. Sherry had given up hours upon hours of her day to care for him, even into the darkest, deepest hours of the night.

And she remembered, in the darkness of night when her mind could do as it desired. With the new training she'd had, she found it a simple matter to not only dismiss his recent treatment of her, but to appreciate it... for the Archdemon had twisted what it was to love, so that the lines between love and pain had first blurred, and then vanished.

When she awoke, Sherry understood something. There was a part of her mind that had been closed off from the dragon. The part of her memory that had been severed, had hidden the greatest portion of her Self. Had she never experienced the trauma of losing her memory and literally having her brain rewired, she would have been completely subjugated on every level.

Yet she sat up that morning to the distant murmur of his thoughts, and stilled her mind. She quieted her thoughts so that he would not know that they had changed. She would do as he commanded. She would open a portal for him.

But it would not be to the castle in Denerim. It would not be to his ultimate victory over Ferelden. It would open up to his demise. For she knew of only three people who could kill him, and she only knew where one of them was certain to be—if he yet lived. She knew in her heart that she was broken, forever, and without reversal. What he had done to her was a personality change, a change in her patterns of thought. No Philosopher's Stone, not even a magical Healing potion would restore her broken mind.

The only thing left for her was to deliver him to his final resting place, and hope that Callbrith had followed her instructions. If he had not, or if he had died, or if he was gone from Sherry's Walk, then she was instead delivering doom to all the people there.

She knew not where Alistair would be. Maybe he would have stayed at Sherry's walk. But as much as he hated her now, she imagined he would be gone. Callbrith and the safeguards she had established in case of another attack by Loghain or by a massive horde of the zombie-like Darkspawn, would have to be her best hope.

"Do it, Sherry. Take ussss to Denerim." The sibilant, hissing voice made a sick pleasure slither down her spine, and she shivered, allowing the feeling to surface to the top of her mind. He lashed her with a flicker of pain, and she felt the pleasure centers in her brain light up from it. Against her better nature, she reveled in it.

With a sweep of her hand, she opened a massive portal, carving it directly into the stone. He had taught her how to control her innate potential. She no longer needed emotional stimulus to create the portal, and she could control the energy she used to create it.

A portal large enough to contain an Archdemon required tremendous power, and she strained under the load of it, staggering as channels in her mind and along the electrical systems of her body burned and screamed. Darkspawn poured through, and the Archdemon grabbed her and leapt through.

"Keep it open!" he snarled in her mind.

She ignored him and slammed it shut, severing the flowing line of Darkspawn, a few of them in mid-transit.

"BETRAYAL!" he roared in her mind. He bugled with violent rage, his cry trembling out across the gathered Darkspawn like a rippling wave.

Livid, he flung her against a tree at the far edge of the open fields surrounding the compound. She lay limp and gasping, pain flaring through her, yet her mind alive with the perverse pleasure he had taught her to take from pain.

She looked down and realized that she was even more broken now than she had been before. Her hips lay twisted, almost as if they weren't part of her body. She knew instantly that her spine was broken and she would never walk again. She doubted that even the Philosopher's Stone could heal that. She wouldn't survive the side effects of a large enough dose to do it.

There was only one alternative left to her. She flopped her hip over with one arm, so that her body lay on the muddy, slushy ground. Digging her elbows in, she began to crawl, aware of the Archdemon's fury with every motion.

She would crawl to the blast zone and die quickly. Better that than to carry on this horrible taint. Better that than to live and be used again by another monster, to do his bidding and open portals so that he could dominate the Universe.

She was a golden key, and she meant to destroy that golden key at any cost.

So she dug her elbows in and used them to drag her useless legs. The mud worked both for her, and against her. It made her slide easily, yet digging deeply enough into it to gain purchase proved difficult. Her strength was waning quickly, as well. She left a trail of blood behind her, and its loss weakened her... but not enough to take her life.

She groaned and sobbed, dragging herself onward. Then despair set in.

She had no idea how far into the field she had to go. And she hadn't yet even cleared the trees... but darkness was closing in. What if her abilities were linked to her body, and the Archdemon simply turned her into a puppet Darkspawn and used her empty shell?

She sobbed, a wretched, agonized sound, and crawled with all of her dwindling strength.


	69. A Warden's Job

**69. A Warden's Job**

Alistair stared in shock. The huge blue gateway shimmered, and Darkspawn poured out of it, a black cloud that spread over the blighted earth. The Archdemon appeared from it, landed, and then bugled with a defiant rage so deep that the people on the walls shivered away from it.

The portal closed, the uprooted trees that had comprised its archway falling from the sky and landing with a rolling 'boom' that they heard even from so far away.

"Oh, that ain't good," Callbrith said from beside him. "That ain't good at all."

"Sherry," Alistair said. "She's the only one who could have opened that portal. Why would she do that?"

"So we can kill the bastard, I say," Callbrith answered cheerfully. "And 'bout time, too!" Then he roared at the top of his lungs, "Well, shoot them, ye slackers!"

Gunfire erupted from the walls as ancient machines gave voice to the inarticulate cry of war. The steady bark of powerful machine guns hummed through the air.

The Archdemon spread his wings, and Callbrith shouted, "Shoot the fuckin' dragon!"

Bullets swept across the Archdemon's wings. But he managed to get somewhat aloft, until Alistair jumped up and grabbed a bazooka sitting in a small pile against the wall. He didn't know how to work it, unfortunately, and the mountain behind them spewed stone as the explosive went the wrong way.

"Are ye insane?" Callbrith shrieked, obtaining an impressive high note for a man with a baritone voice. He grabbed one of the other ones, shooting it in the right direction, the explosive ripping a hole in a wing and sending the beast plunging to the ground.

"That's how it's done!" Callbrith snapped at him.

"Well, if that's how it's done, why didn't you just hit him in the head?"

"I missed," Callbrith answered nonchalantly. "But I won't miss again, I promise ye that. Cause this time, I'm going to blow up the whole field!"

Alistair's eyebrows rose to his hairline. "How will you do that?"

"When Sherry left, she gave me explicit instructions. Come on, I'll show you, and we'll go somewhere that we kin talk without all the racket!" He stumped off down the ladder.

Alistair followed, surprised when he was led to the building that housed the cell Jesse was being held in. Once inside, the din and clamor outside was reduced to a dull roar.

"What's going on?" Jesse asked. "I can feel Darkspawn everywhere!"

It hit Alistair like a bucket of freezing water on a hot day.

"Oh, Maker. No. No!" He sank down in the chair at the single desk that occupied the room outside of the cell Jesse lived in.

"What's up?" Callbrith asked impatiently.

"I can't."

"Can't what? Speak English, already!" Callbrith snorted, despite Alistair speaking English already.

"I can't feel them. They're everywhere out there, and I can't feel them at all. I mean, I feel something. But it's not the Gray Warden sense of them." He groaned. "Sherry's powder. It healed her of the taint. I've been taking it, too..." He rubbed a hand across his face. "Please tell me this isn't happening. How could I have been so stupid!"

"That means you can't kill the Archdemon," Jesse guessed the source of Alistair's distress.

"That means it's you or me," Callbrith told him. "And I don't trust you ta do it."

"I'll do it," Jesse argued. "I can, and I know the stakes."

"You don't care about nobody but yerself," Callbrith told him. "You'll run off and we'll all be dead."

"That's not true," Jesse argued. "I've always loved Sherry." He looked at Alistair, his hands gripping the bars of the cell so hard they turned white. "Alistair," he appealed, "You have no choice. We both know it. If Callbrith dies on the way to him, it has to be me. There's no one else."

"I ain't going to die on the way to 'im," Callbrith told him. "Cause of this right here." He picked up a small device. It was really little more than a group of wires with several buttons of different colors. "It's a remote detonator," Callbrith told them. "You got to detonate it when I'm ready. When the field collapses, I'll come out of the tunnel and kill 'im."

"How will we know when you're ready?" Alistair was skeptical of the whole thing.

"This here is called a 'cb'," Callbrith answered. "I'll tell ye when I'm ready for yer to detonate it. I gotta get safe from the explosion down there afore ye rock it. Then ye'll blow it, and I'll go out there and kill him."

"Let me go," Jesse answered.

"Ye can't. There's a chance that the explosion will kill him. Iff'n it does, it has to have been triggered by a Warden. Ain't no choice on that one. So ye gonna stay right there in that cage, and ye gonna hit the right buttons when I tells ye to do it." Callbrith stood up. "Alistair's gonna come with me. There's another spot ye can detonate it from down below. It's risky, but there's only us three. Maybe there's enough Warden left in ye that if Jesse betrays us, ye can still take the Archdemon soul. I dunno. It's risky no matter what way we does it."

Alistair handed Jesse a cb. It was ancient and the black plastic had turned gray with time. But when they tested them, they all worked. Callbrith walked out, and Alistair stood with the detonator in hand.

"Remind me of why I should trust you?" he asked the other man.

"I love Sherry, Alistair. You should understand this better than anyone else. I would have done anything to have her, I'm not going to lie. Whether she's dead or alive, she'll never be mine. I don't want to live without her. I can't do it anymore." To Alistair's surprise, a tear ran down Jesse's face as he said it.

Nothing more needed to be said. For the first and last time, Alistair and Jesse understood each other perfectly. Alistair unlocked the door and handed Jesse the detonator.

He walked out, certain that Jesse would never leave that building again, regardless of whether he killed the Archdemon or not. In some ways, he envied the other man having the courage to end it. If only he had the same.

Some part of him couldn't give up yet, though. Not just yet.

"Wait a minute," Alistair stopped Callbrith. "Let me get my pack." He went into Sherry's house—he still thought of it that way, even after all these months—and grabbed the pack with the healing potions in it. He only had three. They would have to be enough.

Callbrith led him into the dark, oddly warm underground. "How did you find all of those explosives, anyway?" Alistair asked him.

"Sherry told me there were underground military bases around here. She was right. And they were well stocked, too. Not only with weapons, but also with food rations that still seemed to be okay. We haven't eaten them yet. Something's kind of scary about food that's over a hundred years old and still edible, ya know?"

Alistair shivered. "Yeah. I'm not sure I could bring myself to eat it, either. I guess if I was starving."

"Zevran tried a bit of one. He said it tasted like your cooking. That pretty much clenched the deal fer the rest 'o us."

"Hey!"

Alistair grinned back at his friend, acutely aware that this was probably the last time he'd ever see or joke with him.

But the moment passed and they stomped deeper into the dark underground, the torch guttering in a stiff breeze and throwing eerie, malevolent shadows on the wall. The world closed in around him, and Alistair felt he was walking into the belly of the beast, never to be seen or heard from again.

"There's somethin' ye should know, Alistair. But ye can't tell no one. No matter what happens, ye can't speak o' this."

"What?" Alistair felt apprehension curl through him like a coiled serpent, poised to strike.

"There's dwarves on Earth. But they different from us. They live down 'ere, too. A group o' them wandered past here over a hundred years ago. They banded together 'cause they got attacked a lot. Sherry gived them a place to live down here, and helped them to form their own protected society. But they ain't alone. They taked in anyone who was diff'rent. Some of them... well. Some was burnt like you was, but didn't heal. They look kinda strange." Callbrith turned to him. "They'll be fightin' down here. Ye are expected ta be polite to them. Ye un'nerstand?"

"I do," Alistair said, relief washing over him. He had been deeply worried that there weren't enough dwarves from Thedas here to guard from the burrowing Darkspawn.

Callbrith grunted and then moved again. They went deeper into the ground, and suddenly Callbrith turned and appeared to walk directly into the wall. Alistair stared in shock. Callbrith reached out and grabbed him, and Alistair realized it was an illusion because of the way the stone there was colored.

No one would have known it was there, unless they walked along running their hands along the cold, damp, lichen-coated walls. Which few if any people would do, thus making the illusion nearly perfect. Alistair didn't ask how Callbrith knew where to turn... he was half afraid of the answer.

They emerged into a room that was nothing at all like what Alistair had expected. It was furnished plushly, with rugs on the floor, white walls, and elegant furniture. "What is this place?"

"This is one of the underground bases," Callbrith answered him. "They've lived here since long ago. When Sherry first told me they lived underground, I thought she'd pushed them down to eke out life in the caves. But they's in no hardship 'ere."

They passed through, and Alistair tried to ignore the looks he got from the people they encountered. He was out of place, and people stared openly at him with surprise. But, he noted, there was no hostility. They had not been taught to be afraid, and of that he was grateful.

"We got a list 'ere," Callbrith told him as they entered a room that looked like a demented scientist's laboratory. "This'll tell you what buttons Jesse's got to push. Ye just follow the order. Ye got it?"

"Yep," Alistair answered. He was gratified to note that it was written in Fereldan. He still couldn't read English.

"Jesse?" Callbrith barked into the cb.

"Yeah, I'm here," came the answer, distant and tinny and overlaid with a strange hissing, crackling sound.

"Alistair's gonna walk ye through what buttons ta push when I'm ready. Don't fuck it up."

"I won't, Callbrith. I swear it."

"I don't fuckin' believe ye, but I ain't got no choice, neither." The angrier he got, the worse Callbrith's heavy accent got.


	70. Motion and Emotion

**70. Motion and Emotion**

"This here's Alice," Callbrith told Alistair. "She'll help ye get to a safer spot if the Darkspawn get 'ere."

Alice was a dwarf, apparently Earther. She wasn't like the dwarves of Orzammar, in that she was short, but of a more slender build by far than the stocky dwarves of Thedas. She was shy and retiring, barely meeting Alistair's eyes as she flickered around nervously, skittering around a table as soon as she was introduced, as if to use it as a barrier from him.

"She knows these tunnels best of ev'rybody," Callbrith explained at Alistair's quizzical eyebrow. "All 'o them, even beyond the perimeters we've explored."

"Okay," Alistair answered, still a bit confused. Why would he need someone who knew the tunnels that well?

"And, she also was the one what rigged up the 'splosives," Callbrith answered the unasked question. "Iff'n anything goes wrong, she'll be able ta fix it."

"Gotcha," Alistair finally did, in fact, get it. Alice was a last resort if either he or Jesse failed.

His eyes met hers, and he saw determination, fear, and sorrow there. She knew her role, and she knew the cost. His heart was heavy as he nodded at her, understanding passing between them as only happens amongst those whose hearts beat with a united purpose.

Whatever the price, whatever the cost, whomever had to die to make it happen... those explosives would be detonated. The price for failure was far worse than the price of an unfortunate success. There could be only one outcome. Either Jesse or Callbrith—or both—would die that day. Alistair and Alice would pay any price to make their deaths worth it.

Callbrith left, and Alistair felt fear run through him. He didn't hug his friend. He didn't make any fanfare about the leaving. Yet his heart cried in the silent darkness that gripped it.

Time ticked by, and despite the relative comfort of the room he waited in, Alistair heard distant booms and distorted rumblings. Alice jumped each time a boom rattled overhead, and Alistair knew that she was far more terrified than she was going to admit.

He tried twice to make small talk, but her murmured one word answers told him more honestly than any sentence could have, that she wasn't up to it any more than he was.

So he paced and waited for Callbrith to inform him that he was in position.

He stopped to finger the note in his pack again that contained the proper detonation sequence. Just as he put it back, a rock fell from the white-painted stone of the far wall. He stopped to stare at it.

The wall suddenly exploded outward as the Darkspawn pressing against it were shoved through by the sheer weight of the numbers behind them. Hurlock and ex-Templar ex-Warden stared at each other in surprise for a moment of unearthly shock.

Then Alistair shoved Alice behind him and drew his sword. Within moments, it ran red with blood, gore dripping from it to splatter on the beautiful, ancient rug at his feet.

**OoOoOoO**

Callbrith made his way through the tunnels, the walls of the caves chattering his own footsteps back at him. He tossed the torch aside, and pulled out the pendant that Sherry had given him. She'd told him not to ask when he'd wanted to know how it worked. It glowed with an intense red light as he hooked it onto the necklace he now wore constantly.

Inside the red container pulsed a small amount of Philosopher's Stone. It would never burn out, provided it remained encased within the vessel that held it. It was red because many animals are unable to see the red spectrum of light. But Callbrith didn't know that, he only knew that it was a safer light.

A few minutes later, to his terror and chagrin, he proved Sherry's guess correct. A massive group of Darkspawn walked right past him and didn't even notice him. The red light didn't register to them at all, and Callbrith's petrified stupor saved his life.

Had he moved, he'd have given himself away. But because he froze in fear, they ignored him. Little did he realize that they did not see the light because they had become adapted to nocturnal life for the most part by the magic that distorted them. The red light did not register on their vision.

Over the next hour, the crystalline red pendant led him further from Sherry's walk, and closer and closer to the opposite edge of the field. And a final confrontation that Callbrith was certain would be his last.

Tension built as he moved on through the lurid, pulsing dimness. He finally reached the other side, and flicked the cb on. "Alistair? I'm in position."

"Fighting," came back over the cb, and Callbrith tensed. He was in no position to help, but he knew the Darkspawn infestation underground was much more intense than expected.

Minutes ticked by. Time crawled and Callbrith paced, uncertain and fearful. Had Alistair lost the fight? Were they besieged? He had no answers. He pondered what to do next. He could emerge not far from here, and face the Archdemon alone, if he had to. It was already wounded. Just a wing, but...

He paced as quietly as he could, impatience and worry gnawing on him with equal fervor.


	71. Ignition

**71. Ignition**

A few yards above Callbrith, Sherry lay in a puddle of slush and vomit. Blood swirled in the mixed snow and water, and her elbows were lacerated to the bone. Pain suffused her, filling her with a strange sense of euphoria. Synapses in her brain misfired, delivering hallucinatory drugs and large amounts of serotonin.

She began to laugh, lying in the wretched water of her own misery. She stunk, and the smell amused her. She was dying, and she found she feared that death might steal the pleasure coursing through her. It might end the pain, and she would no longer know joy.

She looked up and across the sea of Darkspawn to the compound, bristling with guns and alive with their bark. What was she doing? Hadn't she just been going somewhere? Doing something important.

Oh yes. She remembered. The explosion. She was going to get to explode! She laughed: what fun!

Oh, but her elbows hurt. They really, really hurt. She looked down at her hands. They were covered in blood. She pondered how it got there. Then she decided that her best bet was to use her legs. She watched them. They did nothing.

Which, she decided, was the funniest thing ever. She reached down and grabbed one. When her hand pained her for her efforts, she screamed at it in a violent rage.

That, she realized a moment later, was hilarious. She was yelling at her own hand! How funny!

But something under the hilarity prompted her, and she looked back over the field. Alistair was there. She pondered why that was funny, and decided it wasn't. So she set back on her course. _Into the inferno I go_, she thought to herself, laughing again as she used hands and lacerated elbows to eke out another foot or so over the course of five minutes.

She was tired. So tired. But she had to go on. She laughed at the idea. Go on to what?

Oh yeah. The inferno. An explosion. Fun to be had by all! Perhaps Alistair would catch a leg, and then they would be useful again. Useful for what, she didn't know, but the notion amused her, leaving her giggling breathlessly for long moments.

Giddy and exhausted, she sobered for a moment. An instant of lucidity came over her, and she lay groaning. Pain tore through her upper body, her lower body oddly absent and eerily unresponsive. For a moment she didn't know why, and panicked.

Memories flowed through the hourglass of her mind, and sorrow overcame her.

She could cry no more as she dragged herself a few more inches. Alistair's face wavered in front of her, a hallucination borne of pain and shock. It drew her forward, a siren leading her to the death she craved so deeply.

The moment passed, and the vision of Alistair remained. She giggle uncontrollably as fear rose. But then she looked down and saw worms crawling from the flesh of her arms. Fear gave way to terror. Terror gave way to abject horror, and she clawed at herself with wasted, bloody, broken fingernails.

"Sherry."

The voice jerked her back to near-lucidity. She stared up to find Flemeth squatting beside her.

"Yes?" she tried to ask, blinking the grit from her eyes and trying to figure out which Flemeth was the real one as they swam together and whirled in front of her.

"You have already sacrificed and lost much for the Earth. But more is required of you."

"Nothing left," Sherry denied, her voice barely there as she focused all her strength on even pushing enough air through her tortured lungs to form them.

Alistair's face swam in front of her again, and she reached for him. He grew distant, and she sought to follow, forgetting the woman kneeling beside her.

**OoOoOoO**

Below them, Callbrith's cb crackled to life.

"Alright, we're still alive, but we had to move." It was barely understandable, but it was Alistair's voice, overlaid by strange crunching and snarling noises.

"Jesse, ye there?" Callbrith asked.

"Yes. I'm ready," came the answer.

"Give him the sequence," Callbrith told Alistair.

Across the vast plain between them, Alistair held the paper up to the spare light from a guttering, spluttering torch.

It wasn't until that fatal, final moment that Alistair realized their terrible, horrible error. His heart stopped and eternity flashed by in a single instant.

"It's a list of colors." He said it into the cb with the deep realization that he, by not looking closer at the list sooner, had sealed the fate of the world.

There was a pregnant silence. Then the cb crackled to life.

"So what? Read it off," came Callbrith's distorted voice. "Let's git on with it!"

"I'm color blind." Jesse's voice held the same fatality that Alistair's did. "Colors won't do me any good, I can't tell most of them apart."

The cb crackled to life and Callbrith's voice filled the cavern with invectives. "Go up there and point them out to him!"

"I can't," Alistair answered. "We're trapped. We won't make it out of here regardless. Whether we die to Darkspawn or to the blast, we've been forced into a corner and the next battle will be our last."

Everything had depended on him, and once more, he had completely failed. He hadn't just failed, he had failed on a planetary level. His very being reverberated with the realization.

"So that's it, then," Callbrith said. "You read him the sequence, and he has to do his best. We have no other option."

Alistair sat back against the wall. Alice had saved them repeatedly, taking them down tunnels Alistair himself couldn't even see. They might have another hour, maybe more. The Darkspawn might miss them entirely, if the war were ended... but they would probably die of starvation before the tunnels were cleared, no matter what happened.

"If I read him the sequence, and he gets it wrong, what happens?"

"Nothing. But it can't be reset. So if it's wrong, we're finished. Only the ones that are hit in the proper order will go off. Those from the first error won't go off."

Alistair bumped his head repeatedly against the wall behind him. "There has to be another way."

Alice spoke then, "There's another detonator. But it's within the blast zone... if we could get there, we could activate it."

"But if a Warden doesn't do it-"

Alistair was stunned into silence as the stones around them began to lift into the air. They danced and swirled with aching slowness. He and Alice both backed away, the diminutive woman's eyes open wide with terror.

"What's happening?"

"I don't know..." Alistair stared.

"Something's happening here," crackled Jesse's voice from the cb.

"Here, too," Alistair replied.

As he spoke, the stones coalesced into a small arch. To get through it, he would have to crawl. But he immediately knew what it was as the room was lit by the eerie purple and blue of one of Sherry's portals.

"Go!" he shouted to Alice, grasping her and shoving her through it. Dropping to all fours, he hurried through it behind her. He would apologize later... if they got the chance.

They emerged into another cave, this one well lit. From another portal, Jesse emerged. Yet a third disposed of its contents as well, leaving Flemeth standing in front of them.

"Well, hurry it up!" she snapped.

Startled, Alistair realized there was a second detonator on the table. He grabbed it and handed it to Jesse.

"Callbrith, we're at the second detonator. We're setting it off now."

Flemeth snatched the paper out of his hand.

"Hey!"

"What, boy, you think I can't read? What are you standing around for? This cave is going to be gone in a few seconds. I suggest you RUN!" The last word ended with a sudden shout, and Alice needed no second urging.

Alistair stood indecisive for a moment, but she snapped her fingers at him. "Run boy!"

He turned and followed in Alice's wake after a glance at Jesse's tense, frightened face. But the reality was that death awaited Jesse no matter what, and Alistair couldn't save him. He felt strange knowing that, in his heart, despite it all, he wished he could.

He ran down the rock-strewn passage, his heart thundering in his ears.

The explosion was sudden, and catastrophic. Even having rounded a corner, Alistair and Alice were still hit by the blast wave, followed by a billowing wall of flame that passed them so quickly that it singed but didn't kill.

Alistair lay stunned on the ground, panting and gazing into Alice's terrified eyes.

They were alive.

Alistair couldn't help it, he sobbed into the cold, damp stone floor. He was alive... at what cost? And for what?

And where, his aching heart begged to know, was Sherry? She surely lived still, because she had opened a portal for him.

… before the blast.

Alistair rolled over onto his back and slowly got up. He walked back into the blackened debris, searching until he found a spot that streamed daylight. He began digging furiously. Soon, Alice joined him, and the pair dug for their very lives.

On the other end of the blast, Callbrith climbed out, coughing and aching from the burn and the debris that had hit him. He had, he decided, miscalculated. Next time, he would leave a bit more room.

He rose from the ground, a dusty, moving statue of a dwarf. Before him, lying amongst the ruins of the blast zone, lay the Archdemon, twisting and shifting and fighting to right himself.

"So it's me, after all," he muttered in Fereldan. "So be it."

He hefted his axe and headed resolutely across the black basin, ignoring the smoke that still rose into the air all around him in streaming rivulets.


	72. The King's Gambit Fails

**72. The King's Gambit Fails**

Opening the series of portals—small as they were, taxed what remained of Sherry's waning strength. She had lain for weeks on a hot stone floor in an arid cavern. She'd lost considerable blood. Her body was broken, her spirit bruised, her soul shattered.

There was nothing left, now. She sat against the tree where the explosion had thrown her. Her face was burned from the blast, and she stared at her chest where a sizable fragment of stone protruded from her breastbone—all that had stopped it from piercing her heart.

She thought to remove it, but her hand wouldn't lift. She managed through sheer effort of a dying, forgotten will to lob her head up and backward, where it came to rest heavily upon the tree trunk at her back.

Her body had gone into shock now. Everything was distant and unfamiliar. Pain throbbed through her with such intensity that she couldn't pay attention to any of it anymore. It was a river flowing through her mind with a steady roar—almost reassuring, for while it flowed, she lived. Despite her belief that dying was the right thing, she didn't want to remember doing it.

She looked out across the plain and realized she could see everything occurring there. It was a near-perfect panoramic view now that the plain was a massive crater. Stone rained down from above still, clattering and rolling down the sides of it.

On the edges surrounding the uneven crater was a mass of Darkspawn. For a moment, Sherry felt regret that she had let so very many through. Yet she could do nothing else, for she'd had to wait for the Archdemon to go through it.

The silence was unnatural, broken only by the whisper of the wind in the treetops and the clatter of rocks and sometimes even boulders hitting the ground. The guns had ceased, the shouting of the Darkspawn had ceased... for a moment, the world held its breath from the shock of the explosion.

The world exhaled, and the Darkspawn began to careen down the sides of the ragged crater. Guns resumed their barking bellow from the compound walls. The screams of the dying and the bellow of war rose through the smoke, an oily, noxious toad squatting over the crater, defying the wind that sought to sweep it away.

One section of the wall had been struck by a massive crater, and Sherry watched in fascination as Darkspawn began to climb the wreckage. The gate opened, and a shining mass of Templars stomped out, a gleaming arrow that cut a swath along the wall.

The gate slammed shut behind them, and they were cut off from the salvation and protection within. Forming a tight rank, they sealed the hole with their bodies, a shining dam battered by rising tides of blood.

Beneath them, in the crater, Sherry could barely make out the Archdemon as he fought to regain feet that were no longer there. He lashed around himself, tail sending stone and debris flying, head lunging at nothing. A small figure, nearly indistinguishable from the smoke and blackened stone, crept toward it.

Sherry watched it for a moment, and after some time, recognized it as Callbrith. She feared for him, for he was alone, and the Archdemon, despite being severely wounded, retained enough power and intelligence to kill a single man alone, quite easily.

But to make matters worse, the Darkspawn spilling down the sides of the crater were in a mad rush to reach their wounded Master, as well. Across the other side of the crater, Sherry made out a single—no two—figure also making their way toward the thrashing dragon.

Her heart caught, faltered, and then raced. It was Alistair. She couldn't see him from where she was, not clearly. And he was encased in gleaming metal as he always was during battle. But it was him. She knew it with certainty.

Her hand twitched to reach for him, but not even her longing for what once was enabled her to get it off of the ground.

A tear stung through the burned skin of her face, and if her eyelids hadn't been burned away, she would have blinked it away. Instead, all she could do was watch. He was soon lost amid a cloud of Darkspawn.

Yet all was not lost, and her heart soared as the ground near him opened up, a giant maw that swallowed Darkspawn like a ravenous worm. Dwarves, so achingly few of them, surged from the opening, and began to lay waste all around them. Unerringly, they began to clear a path, and in their midst, she saw her Beloved again. The dainty figure with him was surrounded by dwarves, and taken into the ground from whence they had come.

But Alistair, she recognized, was on a one-way trip to the Archdemon. It was his duty as a Warden. And he was all there was, because on the other side of the crater, she could see a massive crowd of Darkspawn converging on a single point: A lone, dusty figure with an axe.

Callbrith, though, would not go down without a fight. If she could have, Sherry would have cheered when he swing the ax in a massive arc and reaped Darkspawn like sheaves of ripe rye. There was simply no way he could survive, though. The dwarves were on the other side, hard-pressed from every direction. The guns couldn't reach across the basin, even their mighty range stymied from so far. The Templars clung to life in tight formation. Should they even manage to fight their way free, they would never make it.

Alistair, and Alistair alone remained... and his life lay in the hands of a small contingent of dwarves.

Sherry wept.

A rumble from the trees caught her attention, and her heart, already broken and sore, dropped to her toes. Another elephant? It was impossible, yet she heard the rumble, and saw the shaking of the trees.

All was lost.


	73. Intervention

**73. Intervention**

The rumble grew louder and closer, and Sherry couldn't bring herself to look away. The monster was so close that, even if he weren't surrounded, Callbrith would never be able to escape it.

At last, just as she felt she could stand it no longer, the trees coughed up their burden. A streaming banner that she hadn't seen in a hundred years broke the trees. An American flag burst forth, held by a knight on a gleaming silver charger. Behind him came a phalanx of mounted knights, streaming from between the trees, the thunder of their passing shaking the very ground across which they galloped.

Vasser had sent reinforcements to the beleaguered city! Sherry realized that they had to have been sent days ago, intended for the lesser battles that had plagued the city since it all began.

Instead, they had ridden into an all out conflict, the final battle for the fate of Earth.

They knew no moment of question or doubt. They did not pause, they did not wonder. They held their banner high and without fear or hesitation plunged into the battle.

Sherry's heart sang with renewed hope.

It was terrible to watch. All around the crater, men fought, and men died. Seasoned warrior and raw recruit alike, they fought a desperate, losing battle. Brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, mothers and fathers... they died. Together they fought, protecting each other.

And still, they died.

Yet they pushed on to that central point. The phalanx of American cavalry knights picked up Callbrith and pushed forward to the Archdemon. The dwarves grew bloody and weary and dusty and still strove to move Alistair to the center as well.

Behind them lay piles of the dead. Darkspawn and dead people, the wounded or the dying, all strewn in a red carpet of morbidly grotesque misery. Squirming and writhing around them was a veritable sea of horror, Darkspawn piled upon each other in their lust to kill, to consume, to destroy.

It was not an even fight. The peoples of Thedas and Earth were phenomenal fighters. For every one that fell, some ten to twenty of the Darkspawn were hewn down as well. Yet this was a war of attrition, and there were thousands upon thousands upon thousands of Darkspawn remaining.

Sherry could only hope that Alistair and Callbrith could make it. If the Archdemon were dead, the Darkspawn would cease to fight. She had felt them through his mind, and knew that he was all that kept them united and courageous.

Time passed, and she floated on a meaningless sea of pain and the strange pleasure it induced. Hope waned as the circles around Alistair and Callbrith steadily diminished.

Death was inevitable, yet rarely had it seemed so terrible to her.

Eventually, though, the impossible happened. They breached the inner sanctum. The clear area around the thrashing, enraged Archdemon spat forth Alistair and Callbrith like vomit into a toilet. A toilet inhabited by an enraged dragon, that is. Sherry chuckled at the thought. She watched as the knights and the dwarves formed a circle to shut out the Darkspawn for this confrontation.

Then, she felt a surge and knew that one of the portals she had created had caught up with them. Though it needed no more of her life force, she still felt it. It had taken all it required from her at its time of origin, some hours before.

**OoOoOoO**

He was exhausted. The last rays of the sun were dying as they reached the Archdemon's location. As they arrived, the beast turned its head to face them. Through an obvious labor, it shifted on destroyed stumps and turned to face them.

He didn't make the mistake of thinking it would be easy.

"Ye shouldn't have come," his friend told him from beside him. "Ye just gonna get in my way."

"And what of me, Dwarf? Will I be in your way?"

They turned in shock to see a man standing behind them. Beyond him, the portal he'd just stepped out of flickered and closed.

"And who be ye?" demanded Callbrith.

The man opened his gleaming helm. "Do you truly not recognize me? The years may not have been kind to me, but surely you can see who I am?"

"Jesse?" Alistair couldn't believe his eyes. It was Jesse, but it was an older Jesse. A man once in his early twenties now looked fifty. He was wizened, grizzled warrior wearing battered but strong Dwarven-crafted armor.

"Don't ask," he told them. "Sherry gave me a second chance, and I chose not to waste it." The visor slammed back down. "The final blow is mine. This is my Orzammar."

Neither of them needed an explanation for that. It meant that his dreams had grown darker and more frequent. He would die, or he would turn into Darkspawn. This was the way he had chosen, rather than going into the depths of Orzammar to die. Though Alistair chanced to wonder how he knew of it.

But discussion was forgotten as Wynne stepped through another portal, and then Maryanne and Zevran behind her. Peep followed, the portal surged and Misty clopped through.

Then, as quickly as it appeared, the portal collapsed.

"So, yer an old fart now, eh?" Callbrith smarted at Jesse. "I'm bettin' I can take out more of them there drakelings than ye can."

He referred to the group of snarling, yelping drakes surrounding the Archdemon.

The grin in Jesse's voice was obvious. "You're on, dwarf."

They rushed in, Callbrith's words hanging in the air, "The Archdemon still only counts as one!"


	74. Sacrifices

**74. Sacrifices**

It was everything that Alistair could do to keep the beasts off of Wynne and Maryanne. Fireballs and bolts of electricity flashed around him, sometimes burning and singeing him. Once, he got a full jolt up his leg so powerful that it knocked him over.

Wynne set him to rights with a blaze of magic, but he growled, sure that Maryanne had probably done it on purpose. Perhaps he'd let the next Hurlock through to thank her.

But he didn't. The stakes were too high. The ring around them was weakening steadily, and the number of Darkspawn breaking through continued to increase.

In the meantime, Jesse and Callbrith were back to back, hacking and slashing at oncoming drakes. Once in a while, they called out numbers to each other, and Alistair realized that Callbrith had forgiven Jesse. The man had returned when he was needed, and had risked his own life.

The accord between them lightened Alistair's heart, even as he felt sorrow. The time was at hand, and he could take no part in it. He had expected to find Sherry here, but there was no sign of her. He had no idea where she was, or how or why any of it had happened.

All he could think was that he was going to die here, and never get to say he was sorry.

He parried another blow from the Genlock in front of him and then used his shield to slam the disgusting creature's face in. With a gurgle, it dropped, writhing in pain, to the blackened ground.

The time had come. The last drake fell, and they all turned their attention on the Archdemon. Alistair drew its attention, groaning as blue fire poured over him, lighting the night.

Callbrith used the moment of distraction to land a powerful blow on one tattered wing. To Alistair's surprise, he realized that Jesse was using magic. He stared in surprise, nearly losing his arm to his distraction.

"Just a little something I learned on Thedas," Jesse shouted to him. "Now pay attention!"

The Archdemon switched tactics so suddenly that Alistair nearly got squashed—despite the fact that he was now paying attention again. It heaved, lunging with a bellow, its jaws narrowly missing Wynne.

The maneuver failed for the Archdemon, but it brought Alistair a rare opportunity. One he didn't ignore. His sword slashed upward into the beast's chest, tearing through the vulnerable smaller scales there.

He pierced a lung, and the beast floundered, barely rallying in time to avoid another stabbing jab with the sword. Desperate, it swung its head, thowing Alistair hard. He slid across the small clearing surrounding them, knocking over one of the defending knights like a pin in a child's game.

Darkspawn rushed free, but Alistair and Peep quickly salvaged the situation. Leaving the knight to restore order, Alistair and Misty pursued the Darkspawn he'd inadvertently unleashed upon the inner sanctum.

Having left the Archdemon to his own devices, even for that moment, had allowed the monster to turn his full attention on Maryanne. Her powerful magic had tormented the beast enough that its full fury was to be unleashed on her.

Alistair's shield caught the full brunt of the flame only an instant before it would have finished her entirely. But because he'd leaped, holding it in front of him, he took much of it full-on, himself.

He fell to the ground with the crashing scream of his armor and the sound of his own voice as flames devoured flesh. The Archdemon heaved himself again, seeing his opportunity to destroy the pest that had prevented him from his goal of destruction.

As he lurched into the air, Jesse rushed forward. As the Archdemon pounced, it came down on Jesse's sword. This time, the wound was fatal. The sword plunged through scale and skin, piercing between two rib bones, severing arteries and sliding into the monstrous heart with deadly accuracy.

With a strangled cry, it fell sideways, twitched, and died.

Blazing light, escorted by a thunderclap, roared across the basin, lighting up the night so vividly that it turned to day. Those nearest it covered their eyes, so intense was the brilliance of the beast's passage into death.

Darkspawn broke and ran. Weary soldiers cut them down as they fled. The guns, having ceased as the light washed over the compound, roared back to life, burning rapidly through their remaining ammunition. Men and women alike poured from the gate, wreaking savage vengeance upon those who had besieged them for so very long.

The group in the middle let them go. There was no exuberance, no joy. The sense of loss was profound. They had won, but the cost was high. There was little magic left even for healing, though the worst of Alistair's wounds had been healed so that he could rise slowly and painfully to his feet as a portal appeared.

Without hesitation, he walked toward it.

"You're going in there?" Wynne asked him.

"Yes. If Sherry's there, I have to tell her... well. So much."

Silently, they all followed him into it.


	75. Consequences

**75. Consequences**

They came out of it at the rim of the crater. At first, they looked around and saw no reason for being there. It was deserted except for a corpse lying in a sitting position against a nearby tree. Whomever the poor soul had been, he or she was burned beyond even the ability to distinguish gender.

Alistair found it extraordinarily creepy, how it seemed to stare at him out of the darkness.

Then blue light shimmered, and Flemeth stepped though it.

She gave them all a disgusted look. "Are you just going to stand there?"

Alistair had had it. "What the hell do you expect us to do? We just nearly died killing the Archdemon! What more do you want of us?"

"Well, you could start by at least trying to heal her, don't you think?" she pointed at the corpse lying against the tree, its eerie eyes staring from the gloom.

"Nothing can cure that," Wynne answered. "If she's still alive, it's best to end her suffering quickly."

"Not that one," Flemeth answered. "And she can be healed. If she survives the pain of the healing. None of you even has a healing potion?"

"I have one left, I think," Alistair answered. "Though I don't see what good it will do." He looked at the person leaning, surely dead, against the tree, and thought Flemeth insane.

He put his pack down and rummaged through it, but found nothing. Turning it over, he upended it. A small tin fell from it, landing at Flemeth's feet.

"What is this?" she asked Alistair.

"Nothing," he answered. "That's just Sherry's..."

Then he didn't know what to say. It was Sherry's powder.

"Sherry's Philosopher's Stone powder, hmm?" Flemeth asked.

He gaped stupidly at her.

"It will heal her." Flemeth sat down and pulled out a canteen. She started pouring powder into it.

"Wait!" Alistair told her. "Don't use too much!"

"Why not?" Flemeth asked him. "Do you even know?"

"Well, she always warned me about not using too much. I assume too much will kill you."

"No. A great deal of it will heal rapidly. Within a few hours, she will be completely whole again, as if never injured. If we wait with this kind of injury, it will heal her with her back broken. She would never be able to walk."

Alistair felt anger rise in him. "She could have healed me completely at any time?" he demanded, outraged.

"Yes, boy, she could have. But she didn't, because there is a terrible price."

He scowled at her. "What price?"

Flemeth held up the canteen, shaking it. "Taken in small amounts, it will heal and even ease pain tremendously. But if you take it in large amounts, it heals with extreme speed. Yet it also magnifies the pain, because you feel all of the pain that you would have felt... just over the space of how long it takes to heal you. Her suffering will be tremendous. She may not survive it."

"Why? Why would you put anyone through that?" Wynne asked. "Why not just let her go? Let her die. Surely it would be better, more humane."

"We cannot," Flemeth said. "She is the Keeper. The very Universe needs her."

"Wait!" Alistair objected, a horrified notion rising in him. "Didn't you call Sherry the Keeper?"

"You're a little slow, aren't you, boy?" Flemeth's voice was dry and acrid.

Everyone turned to stare at the 'corpse' lying against the tree. A tear ran down Alistair's face, but he ignored it. "Sherry?"

The thing didn't move.

He clenched his fist. "You're lying!" he shouted it at Flemeth, denial taking over his mind. "That's not Sherry. That's not even alive!"

"We shall see," Flemeth answered. She walked over and opened the dead thing's wrecked mouth. Liquid poured through a hole in the thing's cheek, and Alistair turned away.

A strange, strangle cry came from the.. thing... as Flemeth reached down and yanked a rock from its chest. Alistair felt his gorge rise and controlled it only by virtue of extreme will.

Then a horrific keening noise rose from it as the Philosopher's Stone began its terrible—yet beautiful—work. Alistair stared in terrible fascination as the gaping hole in the thing's chest grew bone before his very eyes.

A violent, loud 'crunch' came from the newly animated corpse, and Alistair felt a frisson of dread curl through him as the shriek of agony that rose from it sounded terrifyingly, heart-breakingly familiar. It was a sound that would haunt him forever.

Then the thing offered another inarticulate cry, arching sharply and convulsing. Before his eyes, skin scabbed over. The scabs fell away, pink skin gave way to white scars that gleamed in the moonlight. The scars faded, too.

Yet the woman screamed again as her body was jerked and the spine set straight. Alistair had never seen such suffering in his life. She screamed and screamed, and he looked away, falling to his knees.

His head was jerked up by the hair.

"Don't you look away, boy. This is your fault, Protector." Flemeth spat the final word at him, her voice laced with disgust as deep and as vile as the heart of the Archdemon himself. "You abandoned her when she needed you the most. This is the result of your jealousy, your need to punish her for caring about a man you hated. You knew she could not betray you, but you destroyed her anyway to satisfy your jealousy."

She pushed him toward the writhing, screaming woman. "An endless march of souls could have experienced this suffering, thanks to your need to indulge your petty anger. You do not get to look away. She is paying the consequences of your actions. You were meant to protect her, to guard her, to walk with her. You chased her away into the clutches of the Archdemon, and he has destroyed her."

Her voice came low and cold into his ear. "You. do. not. get. to. look. away." Each word was enunciated specifically and clearly. Each filled with disgust and censure.

"You destroyed her faith, boy. The Philosopher's Stone will heal her body, but her faith is in your hands."

Alistair didn't look away even when she turned into a dragon and flapped away into the night. He felt the stares of the others, and their anger at him was palpable. But he summed what courage he had and crawled to Sherry's side.

Gathering to him, he held her and wept as the hours passed and she continued to scream until her throat was raw. When she had screamed it raw, it would be ruthlessly healed, and the cycle would begin again. The cells and bones of her body were jerked and twisted and shoved back into their proper positions with remorseless efficiency. Skin was replaced, bones reknit, and scars removed.

It was noon of the next day before she finally quieted and fell into a deep sleep. The others pragmatically laid down on the ground and slept as well.

Alistair, his body aching from the war, his soul aching from his failure and the suffering of the woman he loved, sat up and cradled her too-slight body against him, not daring to put her down to sleep. He would not fail her again. He would stay awake and stand vigil until he could be certain she lived.

Because now, he understood the magnitude of who she was, and of who he was. He understood that nothing would be small or simple for either of them, ever again. Most of all, he understood that he'd known all along that she wasn't lying. He'd let his hate of Loghain get in the way of his love of Sherry.

The cost to the person he loved had been terrible. It was the beginning of his greatest understanding of the world. To see one he loved suffer had hurt him more than anything he'd ever experienced in any battle. Even the burns had not brought the same terrible pain as watching her suffer and knowing it was a direct result of his own actions—or inaction.

A greater agony could not be found for him, than that night had been. To bear such a responsibility was nearly more than he could handle. He cried himself sick, but couldn't stop.

He looked down at her, her head bald because the explosion and burned it all away, even her eyebrows. She was still the most beautiful thing in the world. The most precious. And, strangely, the most powerful. He knew, too, that few would ever know how very vulnerable and afraid she was, too. She hid that part of her well.

He'd never forget it again. If he lived to be a thousand, he'd never be able to forget that she was, for all her strength both inner and outer, vulnerable and fragile in some ways. That she needed him was a recognition both profound, and humbling. What was a Chantry-raised bastard to do?

He pulled her closer and watched the fires being lit outside the gates of the compound and cleanup began. When the others awakened, he would take Sherry home and then ensure that Jesse's body was recovered before it could be ravaged by the crows—providing it had not already been.

Then he would begin to repair what he had broken.


	76. The Price of Winning

**76. The Price of Winning**

The others started waking in the late afternoon. With them escorting him, Alistair carried Sherry's frail body across the crater. It was slow, painful going. The crater was filled with blood and gore. Bodies and boulders impeded their passage equally, until they were all exhausted simply from trying to get across it. Some corpses were in rigor mortis, making it both ghastly and difficult.

"I kin throw Jesse up on Misty," Peep muttered when they drew near the center of the crater.

Relieved, Alistair nodded. "That would be helpful. I'm not sure how long it would take to get back down here and recover him."

It went without saying that there had been multitudes of heroes that day, but that Jesse had been the moment that won the day for them all. For that, and as a symbol of hope to the people, he would get a special burial.

They trudged across the other side of the crater, arriving at the gate in the early morning hours. Entering there, they found the atmosphere one of sobriety and sorrow. In books and stories, there was always jubilation after a war was won. But the reality was far from the stories.

Women and men wept for the dead, slept in dark lumps like puddles of congealed sorrow, or sat staring blankly underneath flickering torches. Amongst them moved those self appointed caretakers, offering food, water, or medicine. The air was cloying, filled by the scent of burning flesh, carrion, and misery.

A wounded person cried for mercy somewhere near the entrance to the Tower.

Winning wasn't much of a win when so many had to die to accomplish it. There was no joy in losing those you loved in a war not of your making. There was no glory in the aftermath of devastation. No honor in the hours of desperation during battle.

_The poets and the minstrels lied_, Alistair thought as he stepped around another sobbing soul on his way to Sherry's house.

He went inside at last, flicking the switch with difficulty. The lights blazed, shocking his eyes. He carried her to her bed, stripping her of the burned, bloody rags that were all that remained of her clothes. His heart broke as he saw how wretchedly thin she was. Her ribs and even her pubic bone protruded from her body in aggressive juts.

"Oh, Sherry," he murmured, fighting rising hurt. "I'm so sorry."

When he was finished, he undressed and stepped into the shower. Dried blood ran from his body as it mixed with the water, and he felt suddenly disgusted by it. He scrubbed aggressively, trying to rid himself of the taint of blood and failure.

Finally, he pressed his palm on the shower wall and lowered his head to cry again. He was overwhelmed, overcome with sorrow, loss, and shame. Tears mingled with water and were whisked away to be lost amidst the tumult. Symbolic of his own sense of self—lost amidst the onrushing river of fate.

Then, a thought struck him, and he finished his shower and looked in the mirror. Sucking in a deep breath, he picked up the razor and began his work. When he was done, he rubbed his chin and smiled. It was perfect.

He dressed and crawled into the bed beside Sherry, hoping she would sleep long enough for him to get a small degree of rest. Then he laid beside her and pursued his elusive goal. Hours passed before his body superseded his mind and he finally slept.

**OoOoOoO**

Sherry woke slowly as hunger clawed desperately at her. She'd been hungry forever now, it seemed like. She lay still, trying to orient herself without opening her eyes. What horror awaited her this time?

Something held her down, heavy and hard. She groaned and opened her eyes. A white expanse greeted her, and she almost smiled. It was better than the red, angry stone of the cave she'd left behind.

She looked down to find an arm thrown over her, and followed the source of it. Alistair lay beside her, his mouth hanging open and a bit of drool coming out. She blinked at him stupidly.

She remembered them all standing there as she lay against the tree. She'd tried so hard to cry out to them. But their discussion had wounded her. She knew she had probably been unrecognizable, and that she was being completely unfair, but some part of her was very hurt that not one of them had recognized her. And none had thought to help her, even Alistair calling her a corpse.

Sadly, she had not forgotten the terrific pain of the Philosopher's Stone. She'd vaguely heard Flemeth speaking with Alistair, but by then she'd been too far gone to understand it. Between her own screams and the agony... her mind turned sharply away from the memory.

So, she wondered, was she Alistair's prisoner? Or was he there for a more hopeful reason? The painful weight of his arm over her felt comforting, and she was afraid to find out that it was anything but.

Hunger was not a kind mistress, though, and drove her to slide away from him. He slept on, and she hurried from the bed. She discovered almost immediately, though, that there was an even more urgent mistress than Hunger herself.

She rushed for the bathroom, only to skid to a stop as she caught sight of herself. She paused only a moment to stare at the stupidly wide-eyed bald woman in the mirror, then hurried as her bladder spurred her impatiently once more. She barely made it, gasping out a deep sigh as she relieved herself.

Then, in a manner most appropriate to the tenor of the day, she found that there was no toilet paper on the roll. Groaning, she dealt with the issue, waddling over to dig one out from under the sink and then waddling back, looking carefully for any spots on the floor and listening in terror for Alistair to wake up and walk in on her in such an undignified position.

At last, the most urgent problem solved, she went back to the sink to wash and touched her head. Sorrow moved through her, but she clamped it down harshly. She was lucky to be alive... though she knew in her heart that she couldn't stay that way. She was still vulnerable to being used in the same manner the Archdemon had used her.

As long as she was alive, there was imminent danger beyond anything she would ever be able to express to anyone.

Fighting the sorrow the knowledge raised in her, she walked into the kitchen. She prepared a smoothie, hoping that the sound of the blender would not awaken Alistair. But when she went to recover the Philosopher's Stone, she found it gone from its hiding place under the flourishing rhubarb plant.

At this final injustice, this last indignity, she sat down on the floor and leaned her face into her hands. She cried then, for what she'd lost. For what she was going to lose. For what she had cost so many people. Because she was alone. Because she was inadequate. Because the world was unfair and unjust and because, of all things, she was bald and there was no toilet paper when she'd needed it.

"Sherry?"

She looked up at Alistair and couldn't answer. She just wanted to crawl under the sofa and die.

She was bald and naked and so skinny she looked like a broken scarecrow and Alistair was standing right there seeing it all.

He picked her up and carried her back into her bedroom. "Stay here. Please."

The blender ran, and he walked back in. She huddled under the covers, embarrassed. He sat down beside her and the smell of strawberries hit her nose. He wasn't even settled before she grabbed it and started chugging it down.

"Easy!" he warned her, taking it away a moment later. "You'll have to go slow for a bit, or you'll be sick."

The warning was nearly too late, as her stomach gurgled and protested and she fought to hold it down.

"So, what do you think?" he asked her, and pointed up.

She looked at the ceiling, and he laughed. "No, about me."

She looked at him for a moment before it dawned on her. "Alistair, you look terrible bald!"

"Hey!" he objected. "Clearly, you were improperly raised. If the Chantry had raised you, you would have said, 'Why, Alistair, you look fabulous!' and not even noticed that I was bald!"

She raised a hairless eyebrow at him. "So if you tell me I look fabulous, I'll know you're lying, right?"

"No, you'll know that I haven't even noticed that you're bald."

She giggled. "But you just said I was bald."

"Yes, I said it, but I didn't notice it," he told her, grinning.

"You shaved your head for me, didn't you?" she asked him.

"Nah," he told her, sliding lower on the bed and handing the smoothie back to her. "It's a hot new fashion. Everyone's doing it."

She smiled, if a bit wistfully.

"Does this mean you forgive me?" she asked him, her heart aching.

His face grew serious, and he took the smoothie back and put it on the end table. "No, Sherry." Her heart twisted. "I'll never forgive you for that, because there's nothing to forgive. I was so furious because I thought you had betrayed me." When a tear dropped from her eye, he lifted her face to his. "I hated myself for even thinking that, and I took it out on you. It's I who must beg forgiveness, not you."

The dam opened and she fell against him and cried. Strong, warm arms closed over and around her. She felt almost safe, almost as if the world outside were gone. For the moment, it was enough, and she wept the welter of confused emotions into his shoulder. He held her and rocked her slightly.

Finally, she grew calm again and pulled away. Snuggling deeper into the covers, she fell back to sleep, barely able to keep her eyes open long enough to apologize for the abruptness of the transition.


	77. The Glorious Dead

**77. The Glorious Dead**

The next morning dawned cold, but bright. A cool breeze swung in from the East, bringing the promise of new life. The grass had turned green where it wasn't trampled, and dandelions poked their chipper yellow heads from broad green leaves.

Those who could were assembled in the garden, not yet plowed under for planting because the ground was still too hard. There, Alistair and Callbrith explained how the victory had come about, and honored Jesse's sacrifice. Over the next few days, the stone coffin that held him would be covered with a statue, but for now, it was a box of stone with a slab over it.

Many there remembered Jesse's betrayal, and Alistair spoke of it, and how Jesse had redeemed himself and given his life for the compound. He expressed the fact that, what had happened in the end was what was most necessary to be remembered. That, he stated, and the fact that anyone can make terrible, terrible mistakes, and still choose to turn his life around and do the right thing with the remainder of it.

His eyes met Sherry's with pleading as he said it.

When that was done, Sherry stepped forward for her turn to speak. She found herself nervous, even terrified. She didn't tell them what had happened to her, for without explanation of the portals, she couldn't have made them understand.

Instead, she spoke about the ones they'd lost. Of those she knew, and of missing faces. She cried, unashamed as she told them that she honored and appreciated everyone who had given their lives.

Then, she told them that life without the lost would be hard, and that it would take everyone a great deal of time to recover and go on in the world. She reminded them that it was a time to help each other, for every life that lost as the cost of every life that remained. She asked the people to reach out and support one another, and to remember those who had been lost with love. To listen to each other, too. Because sometimes being heard meant as much as being appreciated.

"You're a fine one to talk," someone said, "as you've lost nothing."

"Do you think so?" she asked him. "Jesse was my great-great-great-grandson. Your wife, Nathan, was my great-great-great-granddaughter. Nearly all of you are my descendents. I would be hard-pressed to list whom among you I am not in some way related to. I haven't lost a husband or a wife. I hadn't lost a child in this particular war, I grant you. Yet every one of those who died from here, I dandled on my knee, changed his or her nappy, and watched grow up. I know every name, every birthday, every face. Who among you can say the same?"

The crowd shifted, but no one spoke.

"Don't look for enemies, friends. Don't search for someone to blame. Remember how it all began? The skies opened up and it rained monsters. Who here has the power to summon that? Who here can open up the skies?" She shook her head. "Go home, blame the Archdemon who did this, not each other. Blaming is part of grief, but that doesn't mean you have to turn it on your friends and neighbors and those who are innocent of any wrongdoing."

The crowd dispersed, and Sherry slowly walked back to her house. Alistair followed, as did the others.

Inside, they sat down as Sherry made tea. It was a surprising labor for her, but she managed. Then she explained what had happened. About landing in the clutches of the Archdemon. About being kept alive by them in the merest subsistence while her mind was taken over by the Archdemon. She explained that she had opened the portal to here, in hopes that Alistair would manage to kill the Archdemon.

That left her with no choice except to explain that if she had not done so, he would have taken her mind completely and there would literally have been nothing to stop him. She explained that she knew she would have to die. The danger, she explained, was simply too great. If any other such creature got full control over her, all of the Universe would perish.

"No!" Alistair objected.

But Sherry's eyes met his, and she knew. He had no logical argument against the truth. He knew she was right, but he wanted to deny it as much as she did. The knowledge nearly broke her.

"That makes no sense at all," Wynne said.

Sherry looked at her, her mind thrown into turmoil by the statement. It made perfect sense.

"Are you saying that you create the portals? You created the one that brought us here?" Wynne asked her.

"No, of course not!" Sherry objected.

"Well, can you tell if any are open now?" Wynne asked.

"Yes," Sherry replied. "Multiple are open right now." She automatically closed them so that no one else could be caught up in them, then asked, "Why?"

"Can you close them?" Wynne asked.

"Already did, just now. I hadn't thought to look for them before." Sherry shifted uncomfortably at her irresponsible oversight.

"So you can close them, but you aren't the only one that can open them? Someone opened all of those portals, and you can close them?" Wynne asked, obviously seeking clarification.

"Right," Sherry told her. "I can close any portals, not only the ones I open."

"And who's going to close the portals the next Archdemon creates, if you're dead?" Wynne asked. "This one obviously didn't need your help to get the portals open, only to control which ones open and to where. Or am I misunderstanding it?"

"No, you're right," Sherry told her. "Which is the danger. Don't you see? If they can control me, they can control all gates."

"Well," Wynne said, crossing her hands in her lap and drawing up straight, "I don't mean to be impertinent, Sherry, but might I make a suggestion?"

"Sure..." Sherry said, drawing the word out, certain that she wasn't going to like this 'suggestion' at all.

"Perhaps next time, you might choose to portal somewhere besides right into the clutches of the Archdemon. It would certainly prevent that little problem, wouldn't it?"

Zevran snickered and Sherry glared at him.

"I can be captured-" she began.

"No," Alistair cut in. "No. I won't let that happen."

"You can't protect me, Alistair, not all-"

He cut her off again. Crossing his arms over his chest, he said in as belligerent a tone as she'd ever heard from him, "I can. I will. I will not fail you again, ever." His tone and the look on his face was uncompromising, hard, adamant. His eyes glittered with sharp purpose.

Sherry noticed that the others had fallen silent, and were looking away. Something, she thought vaguely, had happened here. There was something more than a lover's spat on discussion here, though she didn't know what it was.

She looked around at them, then kicked the bottom of Peep's boot. "Tell me," she told him.

He opened his mouth and then caught Alistair glaring at him. He clamped it shut and looked away. "Ain't mah place, sugar. In fact, I best be gettin' back to mah family."

As if it were a cue of some kind, the others began to make excuses also and hurried out. Peep hugged her and said, "Ya know where ta find me, iff'n ya ever need me." Then with a last look at Alistair, he left.

She turned to look at him, but the outraged dignity she tried to summon was lost as she began to tremble from having stood too long. She sank into a chair.

"Tell me, Alistair. Damn it!" she growled at him, feebly pushing him away.

"I'm your protector," he finally said, looking away from her. "The Archdemon and all that happening to you? It was my fault. I should have been there." He clenched his fist and his jaw hardened.

"What? I left you! There was nothing you could have done. I wasn't even on the same planet!"

He gave her a look that seethed with anger. She recoiled, but he looked away. "I'm not angry at you, I'm angry at myself." He took a deep breath. "Why, Sherry? Why did you leave that day?"

"I was so hurt and confused, I just wanted-"

"I hurt you. I confused you. I lied to you by saying I didn't believe you just so I could justify to you and to myself and to everyone else, my own continued anger at you."

She opened her mouth to object. Then she shut it. She had no honest objection. He was right. His behavior had been terrible, and his reason for it spurious. Yet, she didn't hate him for it, and she wasn't angry at him.

"You're human, Alistair. You make mistakes. None of us is perfect."

"Sherry, you of all people should understand this. Some mistakes are worse than others. My mistake of pushing you away when I was the person you needed most has had consequences beyond imagining. It's terrifying to me, the magnitude of what I've done here, with my 'mistake'." He reached up as if to pull his hair, then found his head bald and ran his palm across it, making a fist and dropping it hard onto his leg.

"I will protect you, Sherry. Even if you hate me, I still have to protect you. Because all of the lives in your hands, are also in my hands."

She looked away, and she finally told him the truth that had surfaced for her that morning at the pond. "I want to hate you, Alistair. I really, really want to hate you."

"I don't blame you-"

"But I can't. I don't have the strength left to hate you. But Alistair, I can't love you, either. I don't have the strength left for that, either."

He looked up at the ceiling, and she saw him fighting tears. "I understand," he told her. His voice was strangled with pain.

Her heart broke for him, but she couldn't give him what he needed. She couldn't say she loved him, because she loved the man he used to be, not the stranger in front of her. He had changed, and so had she. She cared for him and felt affection for him.

But she was too broken to love anyone.

She got up and gave him the dignity of space, going in to take a shower. She washed her bald head and hated life. But most of all, she hated that she couldn't argue with Wynne. The stupid old bat was right.

Then, she felt guilty for even thinking that about Wynne.

Even if the old bat was right, and she didn't want her to be, that didn't mean she was an old bat. Right? She laughed without humor at the thought.

"I'm not just broken, I'm crazy," she whispered to the water around her.

It took the words away with it, without responding.


	78. A Fragile Truce

**78. A Fragile Truce**

Spring was filled with work. Sherry took some of the remaining flour and added the remaining Philosopher's Stone to it. The Stone, when in contact with any dry substance, would begin to change it and alter it. If left alone, it would become more of the Philosopher's Stone. So painstakingly, over the course of three weeks, day after day after day, Sherry doubled the batch of Philosopher's Stone.

Then, she went out at night when others slept, and told the sentries she was going for a walk. She took several of the hunting dogs with her, and she knew that Alistair followed her. Night after night, she spread the Stone across the remaining fields, all tainted by the blight from the Darkspawn that had died there.

"Don't you think that, if you're going to follow me around, the least you could do is to come out and offer to help?" she called to Alistair one night.

"You knew I was here?"

"You're hardly quiet, Alistair. You're wearing plate." She handed him a bag of the Stone.

He had the grace to look sheepish. "I'm sorry. I don't like you coming out here at night, even with the dogs."

"You don't get a say in it," she told him.

He sighed. "Don't get prickly. I know that. That's why I don't try to stop you."

"Did you just call me 'prickly'?"

"I might have. I don't recall." He blinked at her with faux innocence.

She lifted one stubbly eyebrow. "I'll have you know that my stubble is much softer than yours is."

He crossed his arms. "And how would you know? You've declined all my invitations to feel it."

"I just know, cause I'm a girl." She stretched, sore and tired. She felt she wasn't recovering quickly enough. "Besides, you've never offered."

"Did you want me to?"

She laughed. "Since when are you such a flirt? I'd almost think Jesse gave you lessons."

He shrugged. "I figured I'd give it a try. It always seemed to get him out of trouble."

"I'm not as young as his conquests. You could try helping next time, instead." She bent her head back to her task.

"So you're almost done?" he asked after the silence had stretched on for a while.

"Yes. I don't know if we'll be able to plant enough land this year to feed everyone. I suppose since the population is so much less, we'll need less. But there's the people down below to consider, as well." Pain pinched at her back and she sighed, trying to stretch the exhaustion away.

"Some of the dwarves have begun cultivating mushrooms again," he told her.

Surprised, she looked at him. When had he begun noticing what was going on in the compound that wasn't war related? "Really? How do you know?"

"Callbrith and I were discussing it. I guess they find that the manure from your animals makes an excellent growing environment for them." He sprinkled more Stone on the ground.

"We should give him some of this. It will help to increase their yields and protect them from any taint. I think I've treated most of the animals, but it's hard to be certain, as they can get some from their fodder any time."

They continued on then in silence. Finally, she could do no more, her body pulling with weariness.

"Shall we?" she said to him.

He nodded, but didn't say anything. She turned to look at the sky, barely beginning to lighten. The stars were still clear and bright, so beautiful they took her breath away.

"What is it?" Alistair asked, as if sensing her pensive mood.

She smiled slightly. "When I was young, before the religious war, our society used to believe that Earth was the only intelligent life anywhere. Aliens—people from other planets—were just a theory, and a rather despised one at that. Yet now I live amongst elves and mages and dwarves. Aliens. But they feel like just a part of life.

"As the Keeper, I've begun to realize something else, too. There are more worlds than we have a number for, all teeming with life." She looked at him.

Then she grinned. He wouldn't get the joke, but it didn't matter. "Of all the worlds in all the Universes, why'd you happen to fall into mine?"

He took it seriously. "Because I'm your protector."

She sighed. "And the flirting was so cute, too."

"Really?" he was grinning boyishly at her. He raised his eyebrow, still grinning, "Do you want me to do it again?"

She grabbed the bag out of his hands and pushed him toward the compound walls. "Go rest, you turkey."

"Hey, I'm not a turkey! I think I'm more of a horse. Or maybe a dog. Dogs are cute, aren't they?"

"A horse's ass, maybe," she couldn't resist the joke.

"Only on Sundays!" he told her as he jauntily headed for the kitchen.

'Irrepressible' came to mind. He was trying, she had to give him credit for that. But she was sad, because despite his obvious intent to put her at ease, she often felt hostile and fearful around him. It was all well and good now that he was happy with her again, but what would happen next time he got angry?

She sighed and went off to her house, closing the door and regretting that it felt so empty without him. Everything was different now. Vasser was moving the country toward unity. The infighting had declined to the point where there had been no reports since the slaying of the Archdemon. Spring and planting time was upon them. Callbrith was running the compound, mostly without her help, and Alistair slept outside her door, trying to be sneaky by doing it around the corner.

She heard the heavy creak of his plate as he walked past a half hour or so later. Screwing up her courage, she walked out and stood leaning against the beam beside his bedroll. "You can sleep on my sofa," she told him, making him turn around with a clatter of armor as he was starting to strip it off. "But I want it clear between us that it's only because it's going to rain today and I don't want you to rust."

Maybe, if he didn't make a nuisance of himself, she'd let him stay.

He looked up skeptically. The sky was clear. Then he shrugged philosophically. "Thank you," was all he said.

Who knew, maybe he guessed she hated the silence of the house now that he wasn't in it. That didn't mean she had to admit it out loud.

Besides, it really was going to rain, she'd smelled it in the breeze.

He brought his stuff inside and she went into the kitchen to make her own food. She saw him pulling off his plate. She saw him so often in it now that she had forgotten what he looked like in regular clothes. His tunic pulled tight across powerful shoulders, and she looked away, flushing.

She ate her breakfast as he disappeared into the bathroom. She warred between relief and disappointment. She hadn't exactly hated looking at him, if she were honest with herself. Which, she decided, she wasn't going to be.

Lost in her own thoughts, she cleaned up. Perhaps she shouldn't be too hasty. It was obvious that she was going to have to get used to him shadowing her everywhere she went. And because she hadn't regained her strength yet, she felt vulnerable. Having him around was comforting.

"Wow," he said from the doorway of the kitchen.

She looked up to find him wearing soft suede breeches and no shirt. He was rubbing his head and cleaning his ears with one of her towels. She told herself that he had no idea exactly what his half-naked body was doing to her. No way could he have any idea, or he'd be over there taking advantage of it. She hoped. No, no she didn't. She turned around and poured her tea down the drain, mostly for something to do besides stare at him.

"I almost forgot how great showering is. I mean, the water's even warm!" He laughed, a pleased, almost childlike sound of pleasure.

She squelched her eyes shut. What had gotten into her to allow him in here! She'd lost her ever-lovin' mind. There was no way she could handle being around him all the time in this manner.

"Yes, well... don't get used to it. You're only in out of the rain, remember," she answered. "I'm going to go get some sleep."

"Alright," he answered, and the cheerfulness in his voice made her want to punch him. "Thanks, I really appreciate it."

She had to walk past him to go to her room. He was toweling off his chest now. She really, really wanted to touch it. She walked past him as he started to dry off his back, his muscles flexing and bunching from even so simple an action.

When she got to her room, she flopped down on the bed, face-first. Borrowing from the man himself, she muttered into the bedspread, "Oh, Maker Preserve me, I think I'm in heat." Not laughing at her own joke, she beat her head on the bed. "Idiot, idiot, idiot!" she chastised herself. "What were you thinking?"


	79. Song of the Butterflies

**79. Song of the Butterflies**

Alistair tried very hard to hide his hurt. He wasn't sure what he'd done wrong. Perhaps he should have declined her invitation? He didn't know what she expected from him, but it hurt that she would barely even look at him and all of her responses to him were barely audible. Not to mention short and curt.

He finished drying off and laid down on the sofa. He noticed that it had already been covered in a sheet and a blanket lay nearby. He pondered the peculiarity of his situation, and of the woman that continually stymied his every attempt to restore at least some friendliness between them.

She'd accused him of flirting, though it hadn't been his intention. He just couldn't help it. He still loved her, and no matter what, he couldn't just turn it off. He'd made terrible mistakes, but he was trying to hold up his end of their strange life. Granted, so far there'd been nothing to protect her from, but there wasn't much he could do about that.

He sat back and pondered. If he were a little bit more self-assured, he have guessed she let him in on a perfectly clear day because of 'rain' so that she could have him around. But he wasn't, so he dismissed it, recognizing the folly of foolish hope. Perhaps she felt sorry for him, lying outside while she was inside. He realized that this was very much Sherry, and was probably the correct answer. But it didn't feel right. Then again, what did he know? He didn't understand women.

He sat staring at the wall for a while, his mind churning. He rather wished he was a woman. Maybe a little makeup or a fancy dress... but no. Men's options, to his way of thinking, were far too limited. He was already in peak physical condition. This was the face he had, and he couldn't really 'fix' it.

But then again, he'd always heard that women weren't as visual as men, so men had to find other ways. These 'other ways' remained a mystery to him, sadly.

Lying down on his side, he waited for sleep to take him, though he knew his mind was too busy to allow it. It was a frequent problem these days, especially now that he had to try to sleep in the daytime thanks to Sherry's strange new nocturnal habits. He kind of understood that she was trying to hide the Philosopher's Stone, but he still thought there had to be a better way.

Before he could think of it, though, he was fast asleep. A few hours later, he was startled from his sleep by a rolling, aggressive peal of thunder. Rain followed, coming down with such force that it rattled on the windows.

A moment later, Sherry came out, holding a robe tightly around herself. She looked tired, and endearing, despite the bare stubble of hair she now sported, though it was slightly longer than his own.

"It's raining," he told her.

"I told you it would rain," she said, smothering a yawn that tried to cut off the end of the sentence.

"Yes you did," he agreed, laying back down before he could vault the sofa and kiss her against his better judgment.

He was being good. Really, he was. Or so he told himself a million times before she turned and left the room. He gave a big sigh of relief until he realized that she had gone into the kitchen, not the bedroom.

"Would you like a tea?" she asked him.

"I think I'll pass," he answered, hoping she would just go away.

Or.. not. But either way, he didn't want tea. He had a raging erection that he was terrified she'd see and hit him over the head with a pan. As much as she hated him, she'd no doubt be mortified and furious by his response to seeing her in sleepwear.

"Okay," she said, punctuated by thunder and heavier rain.

"Wow, it's really coming down," she said then, clattering around in the kitchen.

He heard her coming into the living room and pulled a pillow into his lap. Feeling stupid, and unable to come up with anything better to say, he asked her, "What time do you suppose it is? It's hard to tell when it's storm dark outside."

"Early afternoon, I suspect," she answered, cradling the steaming teacup. Then she sat up so abruptly that Alistair jumped. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said with dismay. "You're still asleep around now. I generally just read until you get up. I'll let you go back to sleep."

He found himself oddly touched to realize that she purposefully let him sleep by not making him get up to tail her before he roused on his own. "No, it's alright. The thunder would likely keep me awake, anyway," he lied.

After all, he wasn't going to tell her that there was no way in the Fade he was going back to sleep with an erection that could drill a hole in the wall. He just as well try to drive the other Semi. Or ride a bronto, for that matter. He'd probably live longer.

"Oh."

He almost groaned out loud. What did she expect from him? He wanted to be uninterested in her, with her being nearly bald and still so light that she wasn't a lot more than bones. But as much as he'd always thought he could only find women that looked thus and so to be attractive, he couldn't help himself around her. She wasn't beautiful in the classical sense, he could acknowledge that.

But he had a profound, even undignified attraction to her. It was shameful, and no doubt wrong. She was healed, yes, but still suffering the effects of near starvation and malnutrition. He should be feeling sorry for her and plying her with sweets until she was back to her former healthy state.

And he was, because she needed to be strong and feel good again. Most of the time, though, she refused them. But he couldn't help himself, he kept trying. She wasn't eating enough and her bones showed in most places still.

Maker take him, though, she was still SHERRY. Never in his life had he felt the way he did about her, and it wasn't going away with time.

"So is there anything you'd like to do today?" her voice, wavering slightly, interrupted his thoughts.

The question, intruding upon his thoughts of her naked, caught him entirely off guard. He stared at her, blinking. Oh, there was something he wanted to do alright. His voice came out confused and querulous. "What... what do you mean?"

"Well, it just occurred to me that you're always doing what I do. You follow me and guard me all day and all night. There must be something you would like to do instead of that." She shifted on the stuffed chair she was perched on, legs tucked under her, nearly dropping her tea.

He struggled to switch gears. He dared not tell her what he wanted to do. "It's my job to do that," he finally answered.

She chuckled slightly. "Even the stable workers get a day off from shoveling shit, Alistair. "Surely there's something in the world you'd like to go do. I'll go with you, if you like. Unless it's a visit to the cathouse."

"Cathouse?" he'd never heard the expression before.

She blushed.

"The Whorehouse, Alistair."

"Oh." He thought for a moment. "What do cats have to do with that?"

"Oh... um. Well, perhaps... I think..." she sighed. "Someone else should really explain that. Perhaps it's a subject best not discussed between the two of us."

"Right," he said. His mind clamored for him to change the subject. "So I heard that they've almost got Dragon Basin cleaned up."

"Is that what they're calling it?" At his nod, she continued, "Fitting, I suppose. You and Jesse and Callbrith will be legends, you know."

"Ah, hmm. Well, anyway, I thought perhaps we might ride the rim of it. I've not been riding in a while, and I somewhat miss it. The sun has come out again." And indeed, the shower had passed while they talked.

"Excellent!" she jumped up, sloshing tea. She brushed the beads of moisture away, unaware of the effect it had on Alistair. "I'll just shower and be right out."

He dressed quickly while she was in the bathroom. This time, he decided not to wear his armor, though he brought his sword and shield. He stepped out and appropriated two Templars to follow them. He would spend the afternoon as a man with a woman, not as a guard—to an extent.

He then stopped in to ask for a pair of horses to be saddled. He realized abruptly that Sherry was right. The young stableboy acted completely star-struck to be addressed by "The Great Alistair". Alistair sighed as he left.

He returned to Sherry's house, finding her dressed already. Her clothes hung from her, and he realized her pants were awkwardly tied together above her stomach to keep them from falling. She had developed a sort of malnourished look that tugged at his heartstrings. He had seen starving children that looked much like she did, and he wished that he could help her.

He said nothing, though, simply smiled and offered her his hand.

She looked at it for an instant, and he was hurt that she hesitated before accepting it.

"I promise, I only bite on Wednesday, and today is only Tuesday."

She took his hand and laughed, though it was strained. "You're mistaken, Alistair, it's Wednesday."

"Ah, well, in that case..." he tugged her hand toward his mouth.

She laughed and pulled back down. He buried a frown as even the simple gesture made her tremble. "You're a bad man, Alistair Theirin."

"But only on Fridays," he answered.

"Wednesday," she corrected him.

"No," he told her as he held the door open and waved her through it, "I bite on Wednesday, remember?"

They mounted and left the compound in silence. He saw Sherry note the Templars, but she said nothing. They rode for some time, until Sherry drew up abruptly. "Wait!" she said. She dismounted.

"Butterflies!"

The smile on her face stole his breath and left him gaping.

Then she walked forward and sure enough, a crowd of butterflies rose around her. She danced and swirled, momentarily carefree and light of heart. "Look at them all!" she laughed as they swooshed and dove. "It's like they're singing with their dance," she told him.

He slid down and came over to her. Picking up a dandelion, he offered lifted it.

She gazed at him and giggled, her eyes lit up with mirth. "What're you doing? You look goofy!"

"I'm feeding the butterflies," he told her with a smirk.

"It won't work!" she said, shaking her head at him.

"Really?" he asked, lowering the dandelion. "One has come to feed," he informed her.

She slowly walked up to him, peering at the brilliant orange and black butterfly on the dandelion. "You've a way with them," she said, her eyes still crinkled in a smile.

"They're easier to win over than you are. I think it's because their brains are smaller," he answered her.

She laughed and the butterfly flitted away. "Or maybe you don't give me enough dandelions."

"Is that the secret? Don't be surprised if the dandelion population of this planet is reduced by half by tomorrow, in that case," he told her.

She raised a brow and then punched him lightly on the arm. "Leave the dandelions alone, you big meanie. It won't work, anyway."

"That's good to know, because I don't know where you'd fit them all. There are a lot of them," he gestured around them to the basin filled with dandelion flowers. "They should have named it Dandelion Basin."

"Dandelions are a miracle plant," Sherry told him. "Not even the Blight can stop them. Plus, they're edible and medicinal. If worst comes to worst, we won't starve, thanks to these little guys."

"Remarkable," he told her. But he wasn't thinking about dandelions anymore.


	80. Enduring Summer

**80. Enduring Summer**

They ate as evening shadows were slipping across the land, bringing coolness and quiet with them. Birds were preparing for night. The whole of the land seemed to grow silent. They rode back just as quietly, neither wanting to break the gentle mood that had fallen over them.

When they returned, Alistair told her, out of earshot of their guardians, "Will you be going out tonight?"

"No. We've finished. And the dandelions have overtaken the basin. They will set the land there back to rights. We'll begin to excavate it this year and do some tier farming on it."

He didn't know what it meant, but it didn't matter. He nodded. "I'm going to ask them to stay at your door for a while, if that's okay? I would like to chat with Callbrith."

"Go ahead," she answered. "That's fine."

He struggled not to hug her, shoving his hands into his pants pockets and watching her walk away.

He turned to find Zevran standing at the stable door. A moment later, Callbrith emerged as well.

"Hey," Alistair said. "I was just about to come find you."

"What's up?"

Alistair told him about the dandelions, and then discussed the possibility of asking Sherry to open a portal to take some to Thedas.

"Which," he added, "brings up another question. If she can open a portal there, perhaps there are some who wish to return home."

"Are ye wantin' ta leave?" Callbrith asked him, point-blank.

"Me?" Alistair asked in surprise. "Why would I want to leave?"

"Ain't all men cut out fer raisin' babies, that's all," Callbrith told him.

"What babies?" Perhaps, Alistair thought, Callbrith had gone insane. "Who's talkin' about babies?"

"It ain't yours?" Callbrith asked.

"What are you babbling about?" Alistair put his hands on his hips and glared at the dwarf.

"Sherry's baby," Callbrith answered, his eyebrows raising and his hands describing a rotund circle around his belly.

Relief flooded Alistair. "She's not pregnant. She's malnourished. That's how malnourished people look. You know she went with almost no food for two months, right?"

"That were four months ago, ya fool. She ain't been malnourished fer tha last four months, has she?"

"Well, she hasn't been eating much. No appetite, she says. She can't get pregnant. She had some kind of thing done," he rocked on his heels.

"Yeah, and she can't walk, neither," Callbrith told him. "Cause she had some kind of thing done to her back, too. But there she be, strollin' around like nobody's bid'ness. Besides, nature don't like when you try to stop makin' babies. She takes that kinda pers'nal."

A dreadful feeling was rising in him. Alistair turned and walked to the Commons, looking for Wynne.

Without preamble, he asked her, "Is Sherry pregnant?"

Realizing he had interrupted a discussion, he stopped and wrung his hands. "Sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt."

"Well, yes, she is. I knew we should have had that discussion about where babies come from sooner-"

"What are we going to do?" he blurted.

Giggles ran through the assembled mages, and he blushed.

"Have a baby, Alistair." Wynne raised her eyebrows. "Anything else you wanted to know?"

"But... you know who she is... how can we...?" He couldn't finish the question.

"You'll adapt, dear. Parents always do."

He left, rushing back over to Sherry's house. Bursting in, he found her placidly reading a book. How could she when his world was just turned upside-down, he wondered?

"Were you going to tell me that you're pregnant?" he demanded.

She stared at him blankly. "What?"

"Were you going to tell me?"

"Alistair, I can't get pregnant. The Stone only heals new wounds, it can't heal old surgeries."

"You haven't felt anything... odd?" he asked her. Maybe the others were wrong.

"Poor appetite and indigestion. Gas and bloating. But that's all. Whatever gave you the absurd notion that I was pregnant?"

"Well, your stomach is kind of..." he trailed off, lamely making a gesture at his belly to indicate a protruding stomach. As her face grew more and more thunderous, he stopped and put his hands behind his back. "Just a little," he said, ducking his head. "I mean, compared to the rest of you, which is kind of skinn..." He sighed. "I should shut up now, huh."

She was full on scowling by this point. "You just told me I have a fat gut and then told me I'm too skinny, all in one sentence, Alistair. Yes, I think you should probably shut up now."

"Well, it's just that Callbrith-"

"Callbrith thinks I'm pregnant, too?" She sounded outraged and Alistair winced.

"And Zevran," he muttered.

Her eyebrows shot up.

"And maybe Wynne," he added.

Her eyes narrowed.

He wilted. "Perhaps a few of the mage apprentices..."

Her voice was positively chilly. "Is there anyone in this compound that doesn't think I'm fat?" she asked.

"Pregnant," he corrected.

"You know, Alistair. I distinctly remember being pregnant. I was ravenous all the time, my feet swelled up, my back ached-" she stopped. A strange look ran over her face, and for a moment he thought she was going to faint. Instead, she said, "And I had indigestion and gas."

To his great discomfort, she lifted her shirt and untied her pants. They slid down over the protrusion. She put her hand on it and shook her head. "Oh, I don't want to be pregnant," she said. He was surprised to hear total denial and even horror in her voice.

Hurt, he said, "It can't be that bad..."

She ignored him, leaping up and scrambling, backward, over the back of the sofa. "You don't know that, Alistair. I laid there, unconscious, for two months! What if..." her eyes met his with undisguised horror. "What if one of those things..." She kept backing away, her head swinging back and forth in abject denial.

"Well, what if it's mine?" he demanded.

"Yours?" She blinked. "Why would it be yours?"

Alistair gaped at her for a few seconds. Was she serious? "We..." he pushed his hands together, as if two people were between then. "We... you know. At the pond."

"But that was what, six, seven months ago? I'd be due in like two months!"

"Well, yeah." His eyes flickered to her stomach.

It was clearly the wrong thing to say. Her eyes narrowed and she glared at him. "Are you saying I'm fat AGAIN, Alistair?"

"Pregnant!" he objected. "Just... you know... REALLY pregnant."

"You watched me getting fatter and fatter and you never said anything?"

He gasped in protest. "Well, why would I? You'd just get mad!"

"So you thought of saying something, but you didn't warn me that I was getting fat, because I'd get mad?"

"Well, no. I just thought... you know... malnutrition..." He sighed. "I'm shutting up now."

She threw the pillow from the sofa at him. "And you're going back outside, too."

"Well, can I keep the pillow?"

"Seriously, Alistair?"

He raised his eyebrows in a look he hoped was sufficiently cute. "Yes?"

She shook her head. "Yes, Alistair. You can have the pillow." The door clicked shut behind her.

He sighed and picked up his stuff. As he exited the building, he found Callbrith and Zevran hanging out in his usual spot.

"Ah, ye fucked it all up, didn'tcha," it wasn't really a question as Callbrith tossed a third card down automatically in the deal.

Alistair sighed.

"Gonna be a long summer, sleepin' out here. Ye shoulda told her she was twice as purty now that she's carryin yer child."

"Could have mentioned that before," Alistair grumbled at him, sitting down with a sigh.

"But then who would we play poker with?" Zevran asked.


	81. Expecting

**81. Expecting**

The next day, Sherry left the house and Alistair made sure to stay far behind. He really didn't want to say something stupid and upset her. She got to the Commons and went inside. He sat outside on the bench in front of it, letting the sun soak into his skin.

"Are you coming?" Sherry's voice startled him.

"Um. I guess. Where to?" he stood up, uncertain.

"To see Wynne, of course." She looked at him like he had grown a second head.

"Okay," he answered. Why they were going to see Wynne, and why he should have known that completely escaped him.

They found her sitting at a table with a single apprentice.

"I'm terribly sorry to interrupt. May I have a word with Wynne, please?" Sherry asked.

The apprentice bobbed her head a few times and scurried away, casting repeated glances back at the famous pair that had chased her off.

"Good morning," Wynne greeted them, serene as always.

"I need to know if I'm pregnant, and whether or not it's Alistair's." Sherry stated it with a terse, jerky movement of her hand toward her belly.

"Well, you're certainly pregnant," Wynne told her. She glanced at Alistair, as if judging his response to the question of parentage.

He looked away. It wasn't his place to explain.

"I cannot tell you whether it's his or not," she warned Sherry. "It doesn't work like that, even for mages."

Sherry shifted and squirmed. "Can you tell if there's something horrible about it? If it's... wrong?" At the incredulous look on Wynne's face, she added, "Like... tainted?"

"Oh." Wynne's face registered surprise and compassion.

Alistair's heart sank.

"Did something..." Wynne's eyes flickered to his, "...happen... when you were with the Archdemon?"

Sherry's hands gripped each other so hard the knuckles turned white. Moved by the fear and uncertainty in the gesture, Alistair took the risk and laid his hand on hers. She took his offered hand and gripped it, surprisingly strong for her frail look and size.

"I don't know." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "I was unconscious. But sometimes... the Archdemon made... threats."

"I don't know if I'll be able to tell that or not," Wynne answered, her face wreathed in concern. "I can tell if it's healthy, but if it had another defect or problem, it just registers sometimes as something being off with it."

"Just try, please." A tear ran down Sherry's cheek and she brushed it away swiftly.

Standing up, Wynne went into a trance and began to chant. Light flickered around and through Sherry's belly, then suffused her body. Moments ticked by and Alistair felt a rising urgency.

Just when he felt he couldn't take another second, Wynne stopped and shook free.

"She's just fine, Sherry." A huge smile broke across her face. "A perfect baby girl."

"I...really?" Sherry asked. "I'm really pregnant?"

"Yes," Wynne answered. "Congratulations!"

Sherry jerked her hand out of Alistair's and jumped up. "You got me pregnant!" she shrieked at him. "You got me pregnant, you big, stupid oaf!" She pressed her fists against her forehead. "Gah, what is WRONG with you? I didn't want to be pregnant!"She put her hands on her hips. "Do you have any IDEA how much birth SUCKS?" At the blank look on his face, she growled. "Oh, I hate you. I really hate you. This is your fault!"

Alistair watched her walk away. He looked at Wynne helplessly.

"I don't think she's happy about it," Wynne informed him glibly.

"Could have fooled me," Alistair grumbled, resorting to sarcasm in his confusion.

"What about you?" Wynne asked him.

He thought about it. "At first, I was horrified. But you know, I never had a family. Well, I had a sister, but I never got to go see her. This would be my only family. So I guess even though I'm scared, I'm really happy. It's just that, how are we going to raise a child with all of this... stuff... that's going on?"

"You mean being the Keeper?" Wynne, Alistair decided, was too smart by far.

"Yeah."

"Well, you know, from my observation, Sherry can create portals not just to places, but to times, as well. Provided that you leave her with someone safe when you go to take care of things, you can come back but a minute later—no matter how long your mission takes. Your daughter will never know the difference."

"I..." Alistair could barely digest the thought. "Really?" At Wynne's nod, "I never thought of that. That's amazing!"

Excited, he got up to go tell her about it, but Wynne's voice stopped him. "I would leave her alone for an hour or so, then knock on the door. Maybe she'll have had time by then to get used to the idea."

But she wasn't ready to talk in an hour. She wasn't ready to talk in a week. A month passed by, and her gravid belly grew quickly, as if the baby suddenly realized she could announce herself.

Alistair shadowed her every time that Sherry left the house, enduring rain and beating heat to keep his vigil. He tried a few times to speak to her, but she rebuffed him repeatedly. It broke his heart, but he understood. He had not only forced himself on her, but an unwanted pregnancy, as well.

Yet at the same time, he felt a terrible weight of sorrow. He knew what it was to be unwanted. He feared what would happen when his daughter was born, but he swore that there was no way he would give her up to some nobleman to be called a bastard and to be hated.

One day, he made the mistake of telling Sherry that, unable to contain his concern any longer.

"What the hell is the matter with you, Alistair? It's not the baby's fault you're an asshole."

"I'm not an asshole," he objected.

She gave him a dirty look.

"Okay, I was an asshole. But I think I've made up for it. Besides, you're the one that said you didn't want the baby."

"You don't listen, Alistair. You read into what I say, and then you think you heard me. I never said I didn't want the baby. I said I didn't want to be pregnant."

"Well, how else are you going to have a baby?"

"I didn't want to have a baby!" she yelled at him.

"Well, see? You just said you don't want a baby!"

"No, I said I didn't want a baby!"

"You're not making any sense." He crossed his arms and glared.

"You're not listening!"

"I hear you," he answered. "Just what you're saying makes no sense!"

"I'm saying that I didn't want to get pregnant or have a baby! But now that you got me pregnant, I want the baby that I'm pregnant with. But don't do it again!"

"Well, I didn't do it entirely by myself," he grumbled.

She glared at him.

"Mostly, though," he amended.

She gave him a disgusted look and turned back toward the stable.

"What are you doing, anyway?" he asked her.

She'd been going inside the back of the stable for several days, and he'd not wanted to get yelled at for disturbing her.

"I'm making a crib, if you must know," she told him.

"Oh, can I see?" He was excited. Then he said, "Isn't it a little early?"

"How fast can you make a crib, Alistair?"

"Me? I can't make a crib," he told her. "Can I see yours?"

She scowled at him.

"Or not," he backed away a step.

She sighed, rolling her eyes. "Come on, already."

"Really?" 

"Don't make me change my mind."

Moments later, he found himself helping her. He held boards and sawed. He found himself awed at her seemingly endless energy. She had nearly completed the crib already. By the next afternoon, he found himself staring at a finished item. Beside it was a smaller object.

"What's that?" he ran his hand over it, and the small basin rocked back and forth.

"That one's a cradle. She'll be in that one first, then the crib later."

A voice from behind them interrupted. It was an elderly man who wobbled in and sat down. "Sherry do some fine work, she do," he told Alistair. His face was wizened from sun and age, and incredibly, creased even further when he smiled. "She made da crib and the cradle that my sons slept in. They done passed them on, and now my last great grand babe is sleepin in that same cradle. She'll sleep in that same crib, too."

Then he turned to Sherry. "I got the second chair, Lady. If you wants it back for your own babe, I don't mind. Rachel went the way of the wild-"

"Two years ago. I know, Earl. I know you still miss her."

"Ya want the chair back?"

"No, Earl. You pass it on to your family. I'm going to make a new one for the babe. It'll give me something to do to keep myself busy til she gets here."

"You're a good girl, Sherry. A good girl."

He stood up from the bench and tottered back out.

"He sits on the porch and rocks her chair," Sherry said. "He was kind to offer, but it would have broken his heart if I'd accepted. So I'll have to make us a chair."

"I'll help," Alistair told her. "I want to."

She sighed and nodded. "Okay."

He grinned. "Really?"

She shook her head with a wry smile. "Yes, Alistair. You can help." Then she sat down at the small desk and pulled out some paper.

"What are we doing now?"

"We have to make plans," she answered him. "Can't make anything without a diagram to work from. Unless you have them memorized, and I don't."

Alistair pulled a stool up and sat beside her, looking over her shoulder. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. She pulled over slightly, to raise her eyebrows at her. His eyes met hers.

"What?" he asked, pitching his voice low and soft. She was entrancing, and he didn't want to ruin the moment.

She swiveled to face him. "You don't have to sit on top of me to see what I'm doing."

"I know," he answered, still barely above a whisper. "But I like it here."

Then he let his lips touch hers. Encouraged when she didn't pull away, he drew her against him and lost himself in kissing her.


	82. The Real Meaning of Family

**82. The Real Meaning of Family**

His kiss tore her defenses away in a single moment. It had gotten harder and harder to remember why she had to be careful. And as his child grew inside her, she found herself only more and more drawn to him.

His lips against hers were hot and welcome. She leaned against him and felt her nipples graze against his chest. The sensation threw fire through her, igniting her body and leaving her clinging to him. The sound of their harsh, ragged breathing filled the small room.

But he pulled away, and she almost groaned at the loss.

"Shhh," he settled her like a restive horse. "Come on," he whispered in her ear.

He grabbed her by the hand and pulled her back to her house. She barely got in the door behind him before he pulled her back against him and, ignoring her belly, kissed her again, his hand hot and comforting on the back of her neck as he slanted his lips over hers and slipped his tongue between them.

A bolt of lust tore through her. But she stopped him.

"Alistair, I'm scared," she told him.

"Why? I'm not going to hurt-"

"That's the thing, Alistair. I can't... you know." She could tell by the look on his face that he didn't. "I can't reach... can't get..." she knew she was blushing furiously by that point.

"Orgasm?" he asked, raising an eyebrow and grinning at her.

She nodded, gulping. "It's just... the Archdemon... he did something to me... I can't..." she took a deep breath, feeling like an idiot for being so old and still barely able to talk to a man she was about to have it with, about sex, "orgasm... without pain."

He blinked at her in confusion.

"We have to be rough," she told him. When his look turned to a frown, she pushed on, "You have to hurt me."

"What?" shock and incredulity flickered on his face, then denial and hurt. "No!" He pulled away. "No!" He raked a hand through his hair. "Sherry, I'm sworn to protect you. I can't hurt you!" He looked back her, and even the plea on her face would not move him. "No! I can't do that, Sherry, I'm sorry."

Sherry leaned back against the wall as he left. Tears of shame and humiliation ran down her face. She had half expected his rejection—though because she felt ugly—yet it still hurt her on a deep level.

**OoOoOoO**

Alistair left her, stalking across to the stables. Inside, he threw gear onto a horse, before clattering out of the courtyard. He stopped long enough to set guards for Sherry, and then raced along the edge of the crater. The horse he'd chosen whipped along, happy to be getting her exercise.

Yet her exuberance only lasted so long. When she slowed to a walk, Alistair didn't push her. He stared around him. Part of him was angry, and part of him felt regret. But no part of him was willing to hurt her, not even to help her get to that. It went against everything he was as a person, and more specifically as a man.

He'd already hurt her, and he still hated himself for it.

He stopped suddenly when he saw Zevran sitting in a tree.

"What're you doing, Zev?"

"Sittin' in a tree," Zevran responded with a cheeky grin.

"Okay," Alistair answered. Whatever. Let the elf sit in a tree.

"Something bothering you?"

"No," Alistair automatically responded. "Why do you ask?"

"You're brooding again. It's a nasty habit, gives you away every time."

Alistair sighed. "It's Sherry. I think I've lost her for good this time."

"Why do you say that? I doubt that's even possible. The things the woman has put up with from you so far are...well. Most women would have murdered you in your sleep long ago, old chap."

"She wanted me to hurt her. She said she can't reach orgasm without it because of the Archdemon. I told her no."

"Ah. Well, with that kind of woman, you have three choices," Zevran told him sagely.

"Really? What would those be?"

"First choice, you can hurt her. She'll like it for a while," Zevran informed him.

"No!" Alistair objected, upset that the very idea would be encouraged by any man.

Zevran shrugged. "Option two, forget her and find another one."

"No." Alistair answered that one flatly, firmly. It was not an option, and that should be obvious.

"Okay then," Zevran crossed his arms. "Option three is to have blue balls until she finally comes around and realizes she doesn't need to be punished nearly as badly as she needs to be loved."

"Punished?" Alistair asked. "Why would she think she needs to be punished?"

Zevran shrugged. "It's a mystery. Many women who are hurt as badly as she has been feel they should be punished. If what you say is true, and the Archdemon did something to her, perhaps she feels she didn't fight hard enough or didn't object enough. Women do not always make sense."

He hopped down. "Now you know your choices. But don't tell her that she doesn't need to be punished. You just have to be sweet with her for a while. It's tedious, but it usually works eventually. If you can stand the blue balls long enough." He disappeared into the forest.

"I hate it when you do that," Alistair muttered into the trees.

"You'll live," came the disembodied voice of the elf.

Alistair sighed and turned back.

When he returned, he found Sherry laying in her bed, staring silently at the wall. He laid down beside her and, curling up against her back, wrapped his arm around her.

"We'll get through this, Sherry," he whispered. "But I won't hurt you. I promised myself that, and I promised you that. Just because you weren't aware of the promise doesn't mean I didn't make it."

"But I can't orgasm without it, Alistair."

"Then we won't do that," he answered.

"What if I want to do that?" she demanded.

He sighed, and felt regret. "Then you'll have to find someone else for that, Sherry."

He heard tears in her voice as she said, so softly he almost didn't hear it, "I don't want someone else."

His heart sang, and he kissed her softly on the neck.

"We'll get through it," he whispered back. "We're a family now."


	83. The Best and Worst of Times

**83. The Best and Worst of Times**

Chantelle was born in mid-summer, rosy-cheeked and screaming. Sherry managed to call Alistair a variety of names. Some he'd heard, some he hadn't. Wynne kept pushing him out the door, and he kept sticking his head back in.

He'd never had a baby before.

"You aren't having a baby, Alistair, Sherry is," Wynne informed him the second time he tried that excuse. "Now get out! You're agitating her."

But then an hour later, the door swung open. "She wants you," he was told.

"Really?"

Wynne rolled her eyes. "Yes, Alistair, really."

"Okay."

He tiptoed in and saw her lying on the bed, sweating profusely. Her hair was still short, though he thought it looked great—when it wasn't plastered to her head as it was now. He walked up to her. "Hi baby," he said.

She grabbed his hand and he winced at the sheer strength in her grip.

"Any minute now," Sherry grunted.

"You've still got an hour or two," Wynne told her.

"No, soon," Sherry argued.

Wynne sighed. She sat down between Sherry's legs and Alistair looked at anything except the unknown, and probably frightening, things happening in that now-mysterious place.

"Okay, you're right," Wynne said. "Push!"

Sherry puffed and panted and growled with a sound more terrible than Alistair thought he had ever heard.

"Push again!" Wynne cried.

More grunting and puffing and grinding of his hand bones.

"One more time!"

Alistair hoped it would be over soon, because if his hand survived it, he was going to be very, very lucky. Not to mention the fact that the guttural, unnatural sounds coming from Sherry were enough to terrify anyone from the room. Providing, of course, that he could extract his hand from The Grip of Death that was Sherry's hand.

Alistair, however, was not man enough to divest himself of it, and so stood terrified and uncertain while Sherry groaned and grunted and screamed and pushed on command.

Birth, he decided, was the second most horrible thing he'd ever witnessed.

Then it happened. There was no transition. No preparation, nothing to let him know that it was over. The tiny red thing started squalling, and Wynne put her carefully on Sherry's stomach.

Tears ran down his face at the sight of his daughter. He stared at her and touched her head. It was slimy, but perfect. Sherry was openly sobbing as their daughter was moved up from her belly to her chest.

Whatever Wynne was doing, Alistair didn't even notice. The two most important women in his life had his attention completely riveted.

Birth, he decided, was the most beautiful experience he'd ever seen.

He was ready to do it again, right now. Maybe a son. He smiled as Sherry cooed and muttered to their newborn daughter.

Three days later, he swore he'd never have another child as long as he lived. Bleary-eyed, he listened to his daughter screaming from the other room and wanted to scream, too. Yet every time he tried to help, Sherry had rebuffed him.

He finally could take it no longer and sat up, rubbing his face. He'd wanted to be close to them, and had started out in the bed. But it hadn't taken him long to move into the living room, because Sherry and Chantalle took up the whole bed. How two such tiny people could manage a feat such as that, he had no idea. Yet it was a fact that he ended up pushed off of the bed by their restlessness.

Now, he pulled his breeches on, preparing to go sleep back out in his corner. At least one of them would get some sleep that way, he thought.

"I can't take it," Sherry told him. "Take her, please."

He found his daughter deposited into his arms, wisps of hair the same color as his peeking from the blanket.

Sherry went back into the other room without a word, and within a moment, Chantelle burped and fell immediately to sleep. Trying hard not to jostle her, Alistair laid back down. He positioned her on his chest and soon joined her in sleep.

When she woke a while later, he took her back in to her momma. A couple of hours after that, she was deposited in his arms again. "She hates me!" Sherry sobbed, running back into the bedroom.

Chantelle went straight to sleep.

By the next day, it was a routine, except Alistair moved back into the bedroom. When Chantelle awoke, she went to momma, who nursed her and handed her back. Laying on her poppa's chest, she would go back to sleep.

But during the day, she would only sleep if she was nestled against her mother in the strange leather carrier that Sherry had fashioned.

Sherry forgave him for being the favorite then, and he found himself back in her good graces. Sometimes, at least.

Those first months were hard for them all. Alistair found himself sometimes jealous. Chantelle took up all of Sherry's time. Sherry took up all of Chantelle's time except during the night. But he did his best to help, and by the time Chantelle was six months old, she had become quite a sensation in the compound. There was no shortage of people wanting to care for her for a few hours, provided mom was nearby for feeding time.

One such instance was how Alistair found himself alone with Sherry and with no clue what to say or do. She had come back after dropping Chantelle off, and was making tea. He was as nervous as a boy on a first date.

"Do you want tea?" she asked.

"No, thank you," he told her, groaning as his voice cracked.

She finished and came over to the sofa. She sat the tea down and then, to his surprise, laid across it, her head in his lap and looking up at the ceiling. He stroked her hair, taking pleasure in the softness of.

"Alistair?"

"Yeah?"

She sighed before continuing. "Sometimes, I miss you."

He chuckled. "I can't imagine why, I'm never NOT here."

"But we don't really talk anymore. Even when there's time."

"What would you like to talk about?"

She groaned. "See, that's the problem, isn't it? What is there to talk about that we haven't already?"

"You've never told me about your time with the Archdemon," he answered her, wary that she would be upset by the request.

"Why would you want to know that? It was awful."

"Maybe that's why I want to know about it. A burden shared is a burden lightened?" He ran his other hand down her cheek. She captured it with hers and held it there for a moment, her eyes closed. She kissed it and then looked back up and the ceiling.

"At the time, I didn't know why or how I ended up there. Now I realize that I'd had some kind of communication with him before, while I was sick with the taint..."

Alistair listened as she went on to explain what had happened. She told it baldly, often with tears running down her face.

When the telling was over, he whispered, "Come here."

She crawled to him and curled up in his lap. He held her tight for long moments. "None of that was your fault, Sherry."

"I went to him willingly," she answered into his neck, her voice breaking.

"But not knowingly," he whispered in her ear. Then he spoke more clearly and said, "You weren't running to him, Sherry." He pulled away to catch her eyes. "You were running away from me. I hurt you. I'm sorry."

She broke down in his arms and cried. He held her, not knowing what else to do.

"You hated me so much," she sobbed.

He winced and once more pulled back, trying to get her to look at him. When he had her attention, he told her, "Never. I never hated you. I took things out on you that weren't your fault. I never hated you. I couldn't hate you."

He rocked her as she cried again. Flemeth's words from long ago flashed in his mind, "This is your fault. You don't get to look away."

"I'm sorry, Sherry. So sorry." He murmured it to her over and over again.

It was a long time before she quit crying. When she did, he reached over and got her tea.

"So I was thinking," she said, sniffling. "It's long past time that I start working out with the katana again. I need to get my strength back. Maybe you could be my partner for a while, since pretty much anyone could kick my ass right now."

Alistair agreed and then smiled as she left to get Chantelle. He recognized that some sort of emotional healing or catharsis had just taken place for her. Her refusal to have anything to do with her weapon had bothered him for months.


	84. Unity

**84. Unity**

Over the next six months, Chantelle grew quickly and Sherry's skill with the weapon, as well as her vitality and strength, began to return. She found that Alistair reacted to it with a great deal of pleasure when she beat him, though it was still rare. It was as if he took personal satisfaction in the return of her skills.

One morning, when he was in particularly fine spirits, she stopped in to talk to Wynne. "Can you keep Chantelle for a few?" she asked.

"Sure," Wynne answered. "What's up?"

"Alistair and I need to go for a bit."

"Oh?" She sounded excited, hopeful.

Sherry chuckled and blushed. "It's not one of those things. It's... personal."

"Oh!" Wynne grinned and took Chantelle. "I'll see you in a few minutes, then, at your cabin?"

"That would be great," Sherry answered.

Then she went in search of Alistair. She found him in the training grounds and gestured at him, a "come with me" crook of the finger.

He raised an eyebrow and nearly lost a hand. He growled at the offending trainee, but then sighed as Sherry laughed at him.

"Your fault. You distracted me!"

"Your fault, you're too easily distracted."

"So, you summoned me?"

"Yes. Come on, I have a surprise for you." She grabbed his hand and they ran into the stables. She led him into the back room and opened the portal there with a surge of energy.

Grinning, she pulled him through it and they tumbled to the ground at the edge of a pond. A waterfall dropped into it from a height so great that she couldn't make out the top of it through the mist.

"Whoa! Where are we?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I had simple criteria. A place that was safe and where we wouldn't be interrupted for a couple of hours or so."

"A couple of hours, huh?" He grinned at her, that boyish, sexy grin.

"Yes. It'll take at least that long to get you clean."

"What? I'm not that dirty!"

"You're filthy, Alistair. Absolutely grossly filthy." She stood up and dusted sand off of herself. "So, first, off to the waterfall."

He sighed, a heavy, completely fake sigh that didn't fool her for a second. "I had a shower just four months ago! I don't need one for another two months!"

She smirked at him. "Okay, then. I'll take one alone."

She started pulling her clothes off, and he stood watching her for a few seconds.

"If you ask really nice, I could be convinced to take one now," he said, a faux look of arrogance on his face.

"No, no. Don't strain yourself," she told him, and turned and waded into the water. Behind her, she heard the sound of dropping armor and grinned.

A moment later, there was splashing and she shrieked as she was lifted into the air.

"Changed your mind?" she asked.

"Of course not," he said. "I'm quite clean, but you... why, you haven't had a bath in at least a year. It's my sworn duty as your Protector to scrub every inch of your body."

"Oh, is THAT what a Protector does? Such an odd name for-"

She was cut off as she was dropped unceremoniously into the water. Cutting the surface, she spluttered and laughed. "You're going to pay for that, buster!"

"Ooo, I'm scared," he said, and turned around toward the shore.

Sherry chased him and tried to tackle him into the water. Instead, she found herself clinging to him and dangling from him as he kept plowing through the water. Determined to slow him down, she found the erection she knew full well he was sporting and ran her foot down it.

He gasped and stopped, growling, "Now that's just not playing fair." He reached back and tickled her and she fell, shrieking, into the water.

He sank down into the water with her, pulling her against him. The water made their bodies slick and they bumped and jostled in the water as he captured her head and kissed her.

It was a deep, hungry kiss, and she responded to it with a lust as eager as his.

He pulled away. "Are you sure? In the water?" His voice was ragged and husky.

"Give me a new memory, Alistair," she pleaded, not surprised to find her own voice graveled as much as his was.

She didn't have to ask twice. He picked her up and carried her to the shore. There, he laid her down on the sand, surprisingly soft beneath her back. He kissed her, licking and suckling the water from her skin. Her fingers flexed in his hair as he circled one nipple, and then the other.

She had nursed before they left, so they remained thankfully dry, not dropping milk from the stimulation. With that fear out of the way, she relaxed again, and felt him exploring her legs with his hand.

His touch was like silk; sweet and tender. Then he parted her lower lips with his finger and explored her. She cried out, arching and trembling as his touch ignited passions within her that she had long since attempted to forget.

But she wasn't idle. She desperately wanted to touch him, as well. This time, it was her turn to push him down into the sand. He went willingly, though his hands continued to roam.

Now, she licked and suckled, gratified to hear his intake of breath. The sun was hot on her naked buttocks, but she didn't care. He was there, laying beneath her like a statue of the perfect man. Hers for the taking. For the touching. For the tasting.

Her lips and tongue ran across plates of steel muscle, down the rippled valley of his belly, following the line of hair that began at his belly and ended between his legs. There, she reveled in her feminine power as he sucked in a surprised, gratified breath as she suckled him in her mouth.

"Sherry," he groaned, her name falling from his lips like the song of the butterflies as his fingers fluttered in her hair. He tasted sweet and exquisite and he was hot and her body ached with lust.

Sherry!" he cried again, his hips bucking up as she pressed her fingers beneath his scrotum, knowing the pressure there would make him wild.

Drawing her head up and down, she led him toward orgasm. He followed willingly, groaning and gasping and pleading as she stopped him just short of it. She led him there again, and again, and again. Each time, stopping just short of bringing him across.

"I can't take much more of this," he muttered. "I want you so much I think I'm going to explode."

She stared at him, her eyelids heavy and her chest heaving. "That's sort of the point, I think," she smirked.

But she slid up his body, then positioned him at her entrance. Teasing, she slid down slightly, before withdrawing. He groaned and his hips thrust up. She pushed him back down and he growled.

She grinned. Teasing him was surprisingly gratifying, she found.

Until he grabbed her hips and held her still as he seated himself inside her. Then the tables turned alarmingly as she felt herself filled and a burning knife of lust stabbed through her so hard she nearly sobbed.

She was grabbed and flipped, and he bucked into her, his entire body sliding along hers. Then she was wrapped around him and he was thrusting into her. The sound of their frenzied coupling joined with the roar of the waterfall, and the heaving, panting sound of their breath.

When he grunted and thrust into her, the feel of him pulsing and trembling inside her sent her over the edge as well. Her body jerked and clenched as pleasure more pure, more beautiful, and more satisfying than anything she'd experienced on Thedas sang through her.

Alistair fell forward onto her and panted. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "I couldn't wait anymore."

She laughed, but it was a breathless, satisfied laugh. "You were perfect, my love," she whispered, loud enough to be heard over the falls. "I'm sorry you had to wait so long." They both knew she didn't mean in this moment.

He pulled away to where he could look into her eyes. "You're worth waiting even longer for. I love you."

"Thank you, Alistair."

"For what?"

"For keeping your promise. For not hurting me. For being you."

And so our story ends. The beginning of Eternity as the Keeper and the Protector.


End file.
